Time Around
by RhineGold
Summary: After an accident, Emma winds up in Fairy Tale Land - far in the past. There, she meets Rumpelstiltskin - before he ever gained his powers and became the Dark One. GoldenSwan -of sorts-
1. 0: Into the Woods

Written for the following prompt on the OUaT kink meme:

_"Emma somehow ends up in Fairytale land, only far in the past. There she meets Rumpelstiltskin - before he ever got his powers and became the Dark One. _

_He's miserable and depressed ever since his wife left him, so Emma comforts him."_

Note: This is inspired by the prompt, obviously, but I am also taking a bit of license with it, so bear with me. A Golden Swan romance… of sorts. (There will be roughly 8 parts to this).

**0: Into the Woods…**

_"and we feel it like the shiver_

_of a passing train_

_that other life_

_deep underground..."_

-Vienna Teng, _In Another Life_

**I:**

She barely had time to duck as the tree branches came smashing back into her face. Weaving through the trees, she swore under her breath as her shoes struggled in the muck and debris swirling around her ankles. She decided not to waste anymore breath calling after him, digging her shoulders in as her calves began to burn from her uphill sprint.

The man she chased was fast, and seemed to know the woods better than she. He had robbed the town's only gas station, taking a few hundred dollars and a small army of lottery tickets. His worst mistake had been planning his robbery for the exact time she usually walked to Granny's nearby diner for dinner, so she had been able to engage almost immediately in hot pursuit.

Emma stopped briefly when she came up short against a leaning tree, running awkwardly into the stout trunk with a vibration that made her shoulder ache. She paused to catch her breath, listening hard, trying to determine the direction of her quarry.

The light was fading fast, and as she had no idea who the man was, she doubted she could head him off wherever he was going. The forest was wet and getting colder by the second, thunder rumbling ominously overhead, threatening yet another storm in a seemingly endless progression lately.

Finally, she heard a man's voice shout from somewhere to her left, and took off again through the trees, ignoring the way they whipped at her jacket and hair. Looking around, she realized they were far from the town center now, near the old mineshaft where Henry had once wandered away and been trapped.

Emma staggered to a stop when she spotted him, standing several feet in front of her, trying desperately to free his leg from a rotten log he'd managed to step into. He froze when he saw her, raising his hands helplessly.

With a sigh, she started to walk towards him, trying not to show how tired and winded she felt. Just then, lightening flashed just above their heads, making them both flinch and duck down to the ground. Thunder rumbled overhead like a freight train as the air around them exploded with electricity.

The ground around her felt like liquid suddenly, slipping around her shoes, then her legs, up to her knees and beyond. She jerked around; pulled by something she couldn't see. Her eyes met the other man's for a brief, panicked moment, and then she was falling, sliding, and tumbling, down, down into the earth.

Clawing at the roots and soil at her sides did nothing to slow her descent. She saw something glittering, like shattered glass, just below her, right before she slammed into solid ground at last.

**II:**

Pain exploded like light behind her eyelids and Emma groaned, curling away from whatever had woken her. Slowly, her body came back to her in fits and starts, aching and tingling and chilled to the bone. She could feel all of her arms and legs, which she told herself was a great thing, though her body seemed to disagree with that in part.

Her muddy hair was in her mouth, and she spit it out as best she could, realizing she was lying facedown on a blanket of leaves and twigs, half-sunken in the mud. It was only when she shifted her arms, testing her weight against them, that she realized she was naked.

As her eyes flew open, more data came trickling in - not entirely naked, she realized. She could feel some kind of material draping her back, something coarse and loose-woven, like a burlap sack or a horse blanket.

She realized there were hands on her shoulders, clenching briefly in a shake, before curling away, and then back again. A soft voice was pleading near her left ear, "Oh, please... Please don't be dead... Oh... Come on, please wake up..."

She groaned, louder this time, and the hands flew away permanently. She heard the person scuffling back against the leaves, falling abruptly beside her with a sound of surprise.

Turning her head, she saw a middle-aged man sitting where he had fallen, dressed in rough tan clothes, his shaggy brown hair hanging in his face. He raised his hands in a non-threatening gesture. All she could see were his shining brown eyes behind his tangled hair. "Are you all right?" He called, voice as timid as his posture.

She raised herself up on her knees, feeling at the cloth covering her, realizing it was a cloak. She pulled it around herself like a towel or a bed sheet, blushing when she confirmed that yes, apart from this, she was completely naked.

Still feeling rattled and disoriented, she got to her feet, tucking the rough material more closely around herself. He remained where he was, watching her warily.

When she offered him her hand, he took it, fingers still twitchy against her palm. As she pulled him up, he grasped the long walking stick beside him, using it to carry most of his weight as he got back on his feet. "Thank you," He murmured, wiping at his hair with his left hand, tucking it behind his ear.

Only then did she get a good look at his face. Lunging forward, she grabbed him by the loose collar of his stained tunic, pulling him off his feet and against her, snarling furiously "Gold?"

"I haven't got any!" He cried desperately, raising his left hand to cover his face, cowering away from her.

Startled by the violence of his reaction, she released him. He fell back away from her, landing on his back in the mud, where he scuttled back again. He stared up at her, thin chest heaving, eyes wide and wet. "Please don't hurt me! I didn't... I didn't do anything..."

She looked around, realizing this forest was different than the one in Storybrooke. The trees were taller, darker. A wide dirt path wound past them, disappearing into the woods on one side. On the other, the forest sloped away, revealing a valley ringed by hills, where a small huddle of wooden buildings clumped haphazardly. Beyond them, the sky on the far horizon glowed a terrible, brilliant crimson.

Emma looked from that sky to the man before her, so familiar and completely unknown. "Where the hell am I?" She demanded.

"This is... the Duke of the Frontlands' fiefdom..." He replied faintly, flinching back when she took a step forward.

The words meant nothing to her, but at the same time, a sinking sense of realization broke over her. It was impossible, but she knew exactly where she must be. "...Shit."


	2. 1: Nightfall

_AN: Sorry if this chapter is boring, everyone. Have some setup, some talking, and some waxing poetical about medieval living~_

**I: Nightfall**

"It's not much further..." He called back to her, moving down the hillside at an awkward gait, limping sideways a step before moving down the slope.

Emma stopped at the top of the hill, looking down at the hamlet spread before them. In the fading light, the horizon looked uglier than ever, smeared like blood across the sky, mingling with the sunset. Smoke rose in lazy swirls from the various structures. Some were made of stone and resembled more proper houses, others were little more than wooden hovels. The low roofs were made of thatch and grasses, swaying gently in the breeze.

She realized he was far ahead of her now, nearly to the bottom of the hill, and she hurried after him, stumbling as twigs and rocks bit into her bare feet. He'd given her his outer tunic, a rough-woven garment that fell to her knees, leaving her legs bare and her arms uncovered past the elbows. He'd helped her fasten the cloak properly around her shoulders to give her the illusion of being more dressed and a bit of protection against the cold wind. He himself wore only a linen undershirt and his close-fitting trousers now, but he had not complained.

They met back up at the bottom of the hill, and he nodded towards a low stone structure to their left, on the outskirts of the settlement. "My home," He said shortly, hurrying forward again, keeping his head down.

Other people milled about, dressed in similar worn, simple clothing. Some called to one another, and somewhere, Emma could hear a child crying as a woman sang, her soft voice floating on the evening air. She could smell cooking meat and what smelled like livestock, though she couldn't make out any animals in the fading light. No one paid any attention to the man limping into the furthest house, and she hurried after him, not wanting to be noticed either.

There was no door, only a heavy panel of skins sewn together to create a thick, flexible barrier. Pushing it aside, she blinked, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light. He leaned over the large hearth that dominated the far wall, striking two pieces of flint together until he had a spark.

He spent a long time worrying the wood with a pointed stick, teasing the embers until a pleasant fire took root. Finally, he turned to face her, leaning heavily on the staff. "There's some clothes in that trunk over there..." He said nodding to the shadows to her left. "You might find something that fits you."

"Thanks," She said, moving where he had indicated. She found the large wooden chest, covered in baskets of thread and a cloth covered in drying nuts. Carefully setting the items aside, she pushed back the lid. The chest held rough bundles of fabric, a few bits of earthenware crockery, and a pair of shoes that appeared to be made of hemp.

In one corner, she found a polished bit of bone china, a beautiful shade of rosy pink, wrapped carefully in a thick bit of fur. Re-wrapping it, she returned it to its place. Unrolling the clothing, she found a few tunics of varying sizes and a long chemise that seemed to be made for a woman.

Emma glanced over her shoulder to see he was sitting on a rough wooden stool, his back to her as he stirred various things into an iron pot that looked more like a witch's cauldron than any cooking equipment she was familiar with. She watched him work for a few minutes, realizing he had a store of spices and herbs set very low to the floor, where he could reach them easily as he sat.

Turning away, she carefully removed the cloak and tunic, folding them over the chest, before pulling the chemise over her head. It fit well enough, a bit short on her legs, leaving her ankles uncovered. She wondered if that would be a problem here. After debating, she pulled the smallest, longest of the tunics over that, using one of the cloth sashes to tie it around the waist. She put the shoes on the floor, but didn't put them on. Instead, she turned back to watch him again, to find he had put the metal pot directly into the fire and was now watching it.

As she came alongside him, she realized his face was blank, eyes watching the flickering flames without seeing. His mouth was open slightly, eyebrows drawn in a solemn expression. He started when she came into view, jumping before recovering himself and smiling hesitantly.

"Well?" She asked, lifting her arms to indicate her new outfit, "How do I look?"

"Very nice," He said, voice catching a bit roughly. He bit his lip and turned back towards the fire, tying up the various bags of herbs he had been using before returning them to their slots in the sideboard.

"You live here alone?" She asked, sitting down facing him, her back to the hearth. Emma drew her knees up to her chin, watching him work.

"I'm the only one left," He said quietly.

She looked down at the clothes she wore, wondering at the bleakness of that statement.

"They were my mother's," He remarked, still looking at the fire. "She's gone now. My father, my sisters, and my brother. All gone."

"I'm sorry."

"Well," He said, shrugging, sounding for the first time like the man she knew in Storybrooke, "These things happen."

Emma looked around the small house, lit only by the fire in the grate. A bed nestled in the corner beside the fire, under the dipping eaves of the roof, another across the way, smaller, covered with more baskets and piles of what appeared to be wool. On the other side of the room, a large spinning wheel dominated the space, surrounded by yet more baskets of wool. The cabin's only window would let light on that space during the daytime, but now, it showed only darkness.

Her attention shifted as he began to get to his feet, leaning heavily on the staff. "I'll just go and fetch some more water," He said, grunting with the effort, "Supper will be ready soon."

She stood easily, waving him to sit back down, "No, I'll go get it. I saw the well outside when we came in."

"I wouldn't expect you to..." He began.

"It's just some water, right? I'm sure I can manage."

He sat heavily on the stool again, flexing his wrists in a gesture of acquiescence. "If you like. The bucket's just over there," He indicated the wooden pail beside her.

Scooping it up, she crossed the small space, ducking back under the skins covering the door.

Night had fallen fast, and she looked around for a moment before recognizing the shape of the well, near the center of the hamlet. A pair of flickering torches provided light around the low stone structure and she headed towards them.

Two other women were beside the well, one sitting on the stone wall, the other standing beside her, drawing the ropes to lift the bucket. Emma hung back and watched them for a moment, getting a feel for how the mechanism worked, before stepping up with her own bucket.

Both of them stopped to look at her, and she was relieved to see she had at least figured out how to dress herself properly, as they were wearing similar garments. "Hey," She said conversationally, feeling uncomfortable by their stares.

"You've just come from the spinner's, then?" The one sitting on the wall asked, sounding surprised.

"Yeah, uh... We met in the woods. I needed some help and he's giving me a place to stay."

Both women looked at one another and giggled unkindly. Emma felt her frustrations mounting and she lifted her bucket. "Can I get some water?"

Still chuckling, they moved away from her, the one carrying her now-full bucket easily.

Sparing them both an irritated glance, Emma tied the rope around her bucket, lowering it slowly into the well. When she felt it begin to grow heavy, she reached for the ropes, winding them through the pulley to lift it back out again. Her shoulders burned from the effort, and she was surprised at how hard it was. When she finally had the pail back again, she untied the rope, anchoring it back to the wooden pommel driven into the stones for that purpose.

When she turned around, the woman with the other bucket was still standing there, her companion gone off somewhere. Emma looked at her curiously before making to move past her.

"Be careful being seen with that man," the woman said in a rush, turning to watch her go.

Emma turned back to look over her shoulder, trying not to spill the water in the process. "Oh, really? And why's that?"

She bit her lip and looked down at the ground, shifting to hold the bucket in both hands. "He's not well-liked..."

"Well, that's not surprising," She replied, thinking of Mr. Gold stalking through Storybrooke, where people avoided his gaze and got out of his way on the street.

"He's not a bad man," The woman said, still looking conflicted, "He's just... He's not well-liked."

"Yeah, you said that."

Nodding, the other woman turned and began walking away. "Just be careful with him," She advised one last time, hurrying out of the torchlight and into the shadows.

Shaking her head, Emma trudged back towards the stone house on the edge of town, walking slowly to keep from spilling the water everywhere. Some of it splashed up against her, despite her best efforts. It was heavy and tricky to balance. She thought of the man, leaning heavily on his staff, and wondered how in the world he could manage a bucket of water like that.

When she pushed back the skins again, he was sitting by the fire, concentrating on scooping out some of the broth from the pot into two bowls. He'd moved the iron pot out of the fire to sit just before the hearth. When she entered, he glanced up, looking almost surprised to see her again.

"I got the water," She said, letting it thunk down on the packed earthen floor.

"I do see that," He murmured softly, but there was no sarcasm in it like she would have expected. "Come on, then, sit and have a bite to eat..."

She returned to her spot on the hearth, taking the bowl he offered. She watched him for a moment, her nose wrinkling when she realized he was eating with his hands. It occurred to her that she hadn't seen him wash his hands before preparing the food either.

Looking down at her own bowl, her stomach growled loudly, making up her mind for her. Dipping her fingers into the thick broth, she discovered small lumps of potato broken up into it, and a strip of what looked like some kind of jerky. Mirroring his motions, she turned her hand into a sort of scoop, lifting the broth to her mouth.

It was decent, she realized, flavored nicely to cover up the fact that it was essentially just animal fat and water boiled together. She was hungrier than she thought, and it seemed gone in no time. He smiled at her indulgently, taking the bowl and scooping another helping from the still-warm pot. She took it gratefully, eating the seconds much more slowly, making it last this time.

He leaned against the shelves of spices, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched her eat. She licked her fingers clean once she was done, and he dropped his gaze abruptly once their eyes met.

"It was good," She said finally, leaning over to scoop some of the water she'd brought into her bowl, drinking it down.

"Thank you," He said, reaching over to do the same, though he merely held his bowl of water, staring at his reflection rippling through it.

"Look, this might sound crazy..." She began, wrapping her hands around her own bowl.

He looked up again, expression one of polite interest.

"What if I told you...?" Emma bit her lip, choosing her next words carefully, "What if I told you that I'm not from this place?"

He snorted faintly, "I'd agree, obviously. You are clearly not from around here."

She had to laugh at that, rubbing one hand over her tangled curls in a self-depreciative gesture. "That obvious, huh?"

"A bit."

"What if I told you I'm from another world?"

His expression shifted from gentle amusement to something more guarded. She watched his throat twitch as his gaze darkened, "Are you making fun of me?" He asked, voice low.

"No! No..." She said quickly, feeling her face become more animated as her voice rose, "I'm not! I'm... Look, I know it sounds crazy, but I swear I'm not. I come from a place where... Where I think people from this world end up, or ended up, or will end up, I don't know. I come from a town called Storybrooke, which is... not like this place at all. Where I come from, this place is a story, like a real story, in a book. I don't know how I got here."

"So you come from a place called Storybrooke, where the real world is a story ... in a book?" He said slowly, tone clearly carrying his confusion.

"Well, I mean, to me, this isn't the real world. This is like... a fairy tale, you know?"

He laughed more sharply then, eyes raking the dark, cluttered house, with its thatched roof and earthen floors. "A fairy tale?"

"But like... magic and witches and monsters and stuff like that," She insisted.

He nodded then, eyebrows flicking up in concession, "Well, we certainly have all of that here."

"Yeah, see, where I come from, we don't. At least... we're not supposed to. That kind of stuff is fiction. It's fantasy." At his confused expression, she tried again, "Like the kinds of stories parents tell their kids when they're putting them to bed."

"Ah." He nodded again, taking a long drink of water.

An awkward silence fell over the two of them, and she huddled closer to the fire, arms wrapped around herself, feeling foolish.

"And in this world that you come from..." He asked finally, eyes still on his bowl. "Is it nice there?"

"It can be..." She said slowly, feeling some of the tension relax out of her shoulders. "It can also be pretty awful. But... yeah. It has its moments, too."

"Sounds pretty real to me, then."

"You believe me?" Emma looked up, surprised.

"Well... I've seen a lot of strange things in my day. Another world? Who's to say it isn't true? ...I've certainly never seen a woman quite like you."

She snorted, looking away again. With a sudden thought, she looked up, "Do you know anything about a princess named Snow White? Or a prince named James? Or Cinderella?"

He bit his lip, eyes tracking across the room as he thought. Finally, he shook his head solemnly, "No, sorry... I don't recognize those names."

"It's okay," She said, slumping over dejectedly. "I guess that would have been too easy, huh?"

They sat in front of the fire for a long time, the silence more comfortable now. Finally, he struggled up to his feet, tapping his fist against his bad leg as he leaned on the staff. "Well, I'm sure things will look brighter in the morning," He said lightly.

She stood with him, and he indicated the bed on the wall along the chest. "You can sleep there, if you like. No one uses it anymore."

She nodded and watched him move over to the bed beside the fire. Leaning his staff against the wall, he stripped off his tunic, hanging it on a hook nearby, before crawling under the blankets. He hissed as he knelt down before turning over onto his back.

After a few moments deliberation, Emma removed her sash and over tunic as well, leaving on the chemise. Uncovering the bed, she shook out the blanket for a moment before spreading it back down. The bed, she realized, was made of a pallet of straw, spread inside a wooden frame. It smelled musty, but it was soft. The pillow appeared to be more straw shoved into a bit of cloth.

Turning onto her back, she stared up at the ceiling, realizing there were more bags and baskets suspended from various hooks and ropes looped over the rafters. Something finally occurred to her, and she glanced over at the man, lying across the room, hands folded on his chest. "Hey," She called softly. When he turned his head to glance at her, she could see his eyes reflected in the firelight. "What's your name?"

"...It's Rumpelstiltskin..." He said finally.

She laughed, shaking her head. "No, really."

"It's... It's the only one I have..." He said, sounding mildly offended.

"Huh." She turned back to look up at the ceiling again. "Sorry."

After a few more minutes of silence, he called back softly, "What's your name?"

"It's Emma. Emma Swan."

"Emma." He turned the name over in his mouth experimentally. "Emma Swan. ...That's a lovely name."

She glanced at him sharply, but his eyes were closed, face unguarded. He looked half-asleep. "...Thanks," She replied finally.

He nodded absently and turned his head to the side. After a few minutes, she could hear him snoring faintly in the darkness. The air felt heavy with the smoke from the fire, and she felt drowsy herself. Still, it took a long time for her to fall asleep that night.

She lay there, listening to the soft sound of the man breathing across the way, his low even breaths making a gentle rhythm that her own body seemed to fall into. "Not in Kansas anymore..." She muttered, and finally closed her eyes.


	3. 2: Tailspinning

_AN: Here is some more talking and some bonding. And the word 'wool' doesn't even look like a word anymore. Again, if this is boring, I'm sorry. There will be more action in the next chapter, I swear._

**II: Tailspinning**

Stifling a yawn, Emma rolled onto her side, reaching blindly for her cell phone on the bedside table. Her hand met empty air before dragging down heavily to bang against the ground. She opened her eyes, clutching the thin blanket to her with her other hand. The events of the day before came rushing back, and she looked around the small stone house, despairing to see that it was all still very real.

Sunlight streamed in through the wide window on the far wall, lighting the room across the structure, though the side with the beds remained mostly in shadow. The bed across from her was empty, the linens folded neatly. Sitting up, she saw she was alone in the cabin.

She turned her body to let her feet rest on the floor, studying the packed dirt as it gave slightly under her toes. She scrunched them, unable to make more than a faint dent in the soil. It was packed tightly, she realized, and she wondered how many generations had lived in this small space to make it so.

More light spilled into the space as the flap of skins was shoved aside. Emma's eyes constricted automatically against the glare, and when her vision steadied, she saw the man had returned. He carried a mass of straw threshed together by a rope, slung over one shoulder, and in his left hand, he balanced a bucket of water carefully. Stumping heavily against his staff, he made his way closer to the hearth where he dropped both burdens.

"You're awake, Miss Emma," He said conversationally, turning away almost immediately to his store of herbs at the fireside. She stood up and crossed the space, folding her arms to her chest against the early-morning chill. She felt curiously exposed all of the sudden, in the light of day, with no undergarments under the thin chemise.

As she came closer, she saw his face was bleeding, high up on his cheekbone, a sharp gash about an inch long. He wiped at it with his sleeve absently and she raised her hand to stop him. He froze when her hand closed around his wrist, turning to stare at her, eyes wide.

"You're bleeding," She said dumbly, her wit not equal to her present circumstances.

"It's just a small thing," He replied softly, still staring.

Feeling her face warm, she released his wrist, turning to the bucket of water. "You shouldn't use your sleeve like that. Have you got any clean rags?"

He shrugged, confused, and she sighed. Hiking up the chemise, she dipped some of the bunched material it in the water, wringing it out as best she could. With a hand on his shoulder, she guided him to sit on the stool and then leaned over to wipe at his face.

"Rough day at the well this morning?" She asked, trying to ignore the way he flinched under her hand. This man's timid posture did not match the face she knew and it unnerved her.

"...Something like that." He murmured, eyes sliding away.

"Did someone do this to you?" She asked softly as she lowered the stained bit of her garment.

He swallowed hard, deliberately turning to fiddle in the packets and jars on the shelf, pulling out some kind of white salve that smelled strongly of mint. She took it from him and rubbed a bit of it against his cheek. She wasn't sure if he jumped from simply being touched or if it stung.

"If someone hurt you, you should tell me," She said finally.

He shrugged, looking away, hands clenching and unclenching in his lap. "It was a boy... playing with a stone. An accident, I'm sure."

"I'm sure," She repeated, recalling the woman's words the night before – _He's... not well-liked._

"Have you eaten?" He asked suddenly, eyebrows lifting in an almost hopeful expression.

Emma tilted her face to the side in a look, aware of how he was changing the subject, but she decided to let it go and replaced the lid on the salve. "No, not yet. What is there? I don't want to eat all your food."

"No, no, it's fine..." He insisted, rooting around the hearth for the pot from the night before. The fire burned low in the hearth, most of the embers gone grey, but he raked at them with the sharp stick before setting the pot inside again. "It'll be good for another few days, I think. I have salt this time to preserve it."

She bit her lip, not particularly thrilled with this news. Fairy tales never seemed to mention that people were really sort of dirty and ate questionable foods.

Emma turned her head as he got back to his feet, limping across the floor to the wheel in the bright corner of the room. He settled himself on the wide stool there, leaning his staff against the wall.

She watched him root around in the baskets around the wheel, pulling out a large pile of rough wool. It looked almost like yarn already, but he began pulling on the pieces, making them puff out into something resembling cotton stuffing.

A few minutes later, she could smell the food getting warm, so she carefully pulled the pot out by the handle, setting it on the hearth. The bowls from the night before were sitting nearby, so she helped herself to some of the stew. It tasted roughly the same as the day before, but she found she had less appetite for it.

As she ate, Emma turned to watch him working at the wheel. The spinner, the woman had called him. Intellectually, she knew what a spinning wheel was, having seen them in, well, fairy tales, but watching one at work was a new experience.

He tugged on a bit of string already in the shaft attached to the larger wheel. He began to turn the wheel, using a foot pedal, pumping lightly and rhythmically with his good leg. With both hands, he carefully fed the tufts of fluffy wool towards the guiding string, where the wheel's mechanism caught it, twirling it around and into a recognizable yarn. She wondered if it hurt him to do it - if his weight shifted to his wounded side as he worked the pedal.

Rumpelstiltskin bobbed his head slowly, in time with each revolution of the wheel. His lips moved soundlessly as though counting steadily to himself. Slowly, the shaft on the side of the wheel began to fill up with yarn, thick and coiled and white, like something someone would crochet with, she guessed. It was calming, almost soothing, watching him work. He seemed to have forgotten she was there.

Finally, all of the wool in his lap had vanished, spun tight into the mechanism. He paused, wiping his face with his hand wearily. He turned behind his stool and found what looked like a canteen, leaning down to oil the leather straps that controlled the shaft inside the mechanism.

Slowly, Emma came to stand next to him, dropping down to her knees and then to sit on the floor at an angle to him. "Can I help?" She asked.

He looked at her, mouth opening, seemingly startled before he recovered. "Do you know how to pick?" He asked finally.

She shook her head. "Not a clue. But I'm willing to learn..."

He snorted softly at that, leaning over to drag another bag of wool closer to her. He took out a fat wad of it, gathering it into the lap part of his tunic, motioning for her to do the same. Emma grabbed her own chunk of wool, nodding. He showed her how to separate the wool curls into the cottony puffs he had made earlier, spreading the fibers until they were thin and fine.

Once he was satisfied she had the general ideal, he began working with the portion in his lap, feeding into the orifice of the wheel, nodding to himself again.

"Have you been doing this a long time?" She asked, looking up. He broke his rhythm, turning to look at her sharply. "Oh, sorry, is that going to mess you up, if I talk to you?"

He considered a moment, probably parsing over her sentence structure, before shrugging. "I don't know. I've never tried it."

"Okay, so how about we talk and if it's bad, then we stop?" She suggested brightly.

He shrugged again; face quirking into a smile, as he went back to work.

"So you've been doing this a long time?" She repeated, returning her attention to the wool. It took her a lot longer to pick through it than he had spent on his pile, but she seemed to be getting similar results.

"All of my life," He answered, head still nodding. She watched his hands, combing back over the wool as it spun free of his fingers, a delicate, seemingly effortless dance of pulls and releases.

"Isn't this kind of...? Kind of like a woman's thing here?" She joked.

He shrugged again. "I'm the one that's left to do it. In this village, you do what your parents did, what their parents did. Once they were all gone, they had no choice but to take it from me. It's all I know how to do."

It seemed like the longest chain of comments she had heard him make thus far, so she mulled over the words carefully. His voice sounded so much like Mr. Gold's, but his accent was thicker, stranger, and he spoke without his counterpart's calm authority.

"What happened to your family?" She asked suddenly, remembering his mention of siblings, parents, the night before.

His foot came down hard on the pedal and the wheel stopped abruptly, yanking the thread from his hands. He looked down at his fingers where the wool had scratched across them, taking a deep breath before picking up another tuft of wool. "They died," He said shortly, resuming his spinning. "In the war."

Emma bit her lip, feeling guilty. Clearly this wound was still fresh for this man. She wondered how long it had been since he had lost them, but she knew better than to ask. "So there was a war here?" She said finally.

He laughed bitterly at that. "Always a war here. Always has been. Always will be."

"Why is that?" She glanced up at the window, at the sky, blue overhead from this angle, but the day before, the horizon on the opposite side had been a terrible, bloody red. "Is that what's happening over those hills?"

He nodded silently, staring at the wool in his lap until it was gone.

Finally, he turned to her, reaching for the pile she held. She gathered it up, passing it over to him. Their hands touched briefly, fumbling under the soft curls. His hands were warm, coarse, and weathered. Gold's hands were smoother, softer. This man worked hard, and clearly had all his life.

As he continued, she pulled out some more wool to work with. To her surprise, he began to speak, his voice rising and falling in time with the wheel, almost as though he were talking to nothing, as though she wasn't there. "Over the hill, there lives a race of creatures. Terrible creatures. They are not men. They may have been once, but they are not men anymore. We call them ogres.

"Every year, they come to hunt, to find food and captives to take back to their lands. They burn our villages; take our women, our men. Our children. What they can't carry, they destroy. We hold the line as best we can, but there's no hope in it. Generation after generation of our people fight, and bleed, and die, for a few inches of soil long since dead.

"Everyone must fight, once they come of age. When I was a boy, the age was twenty one. Now, it is sixteen. Children are sent over the hills, to be bodies on a wall, in a field. ...That's soon all they are."

"That's horrible," She whispered, mouth opening in surprise.

"Fairy tales," He replied obliquely.

Emma stared at her lap, feeling strangely ashamed, though she was unsure as to why. Finally, she said, "It's funny... Where I come from, I do work that's usually considered a man's job. And here, you do this. But it looks like you're good at it."

"What do you do, in your... Storybrooke?" He accented the name awkwardly, rolling his mouth over the syllables.

"I'm the sheriff there. I catch the criminals, keep the peace. I make sure the town is safe, and the people are safe."

He nodded. "I'm sure you're very good at your job."

She smiled wryly at the compliment, "What makes you say that?"

He jerked his head back down, a smile tugging at his lips. "Because you care about people when you look at them. That's easy enough to see."

"But how do you know that?" She protested, lifting her palms questioningly.

Rumpelstiltskin cocked his head to the side, smiling faintly, his hair hanging shaggily over his eyes, casting shadows on his lined face. "...Because you care about me."

_AN: (Note: 'tailspinning' refers to the type of yarn Rumpelstiltskin is making in this chapter, as well as being a homophone for tale-spinning, which he is also doing, by telling her a story.)_

_And yes, gentle readers, in this story, there is no Baelfire as of yet. I can't imagine why that could be, can you? The next part will feature a bit more action, and Emma being a BAMF, as is her wont. _


	4. 3: Bargaining

_AN: This chapter ended up being a lot longer than I thought it would, so it's being broken up into two parts._

**III: Bargaining **

**I:**

The evening melted into the night, and so they passed the next few days. Emma fetched water from the well, her shoulders becoming more accustomed to the labor each time. He sat and spun rope after rope of the soft, thick yarn, which she carefully unspooled and rewound around a wooden shaft, measuring them to his specifications.

They ate the stew three times a day, and when it was gone, he took her to the woods where they'd met to gather roots and herbs to make another one. The tiny garden behind the cottage yielded a few more potatoes and he had more strips of dried meat wrapped up in the baskets hanging from the ceiling. She watched him cook, convincing him to wash his hands off in the bucket first, and she opened her mouth obediently when he held out the large wooden spoon.

Conversations were sparse, often regulated to necessity or explanation. He seemed amused by her ignorance of functioning in this sort of environment, and she cautiously explained how some things worked in her own world. He seemed particularly intrigued in her description of refrigerators, washers, and sewing machines, but cars and computers disinterested him completely. She pictured Mr. Gold, strolling about town with his bad leg and his expensive suits, with his quaint, dim shop and its card-catalogue filing system and thought to herself that some things would apparently never change.

Comparing and contrasting the two men became an interesting and tangled process. Occasionally, he would say something close - almost decisive, almost derisive, voice and expression ghosts of the man she knew. Then, just as suddenly, he would fold back in on himself with something like shame, eyes downcast, cheeks hollowing as he sucked in a breath.

He jumped at loud noises, curled his hands to his chest when he didn't know what to do with them, and looked at the world with his head bowed, hair hanging in his face. She wondered what he was so afraid of, but could not think of a way to broach the subject. He slept each night, curled on his side, leg drawn up beside himself, wrapping his arms around it. She watched him, eyes closed, breathing evenly, until she too, fell asleep. He was always awake before her each morning, preparing their breakfast at the hearth.

And finally, she was absolutely in no way closer to learning how to return to Storybrooke, a thought that sometimes distressed her, and sometimes seemed far from her mind. She thought of Mary Margaret and her cheerful domesticity, the ease with which she cleaned and cooked and cared. She was beginning to understand Henry's assessment of the schoolteacher - it as easy to see how a person like that would be born of this kind of place. There was always more work to be done, and few people left in the village to do it.

When outside, Emma would nod at the people she passed, but they would mainly turn away, whispering with companions or watching her, closed-mouthed. No one spoke to her unless she spoke to them first. She did her best to reign in her frustration with the townspeople, not wanting to put the man into a difficult situation of being responsible for her behavior somehow.

She lay back on her bed, stifling a yawn. Sleepy afternoon sun turned the cabin's air to gold, making her feel drowsy now that she was full from lunch. She'd wound all the yarn he'd given her, so she simply lay there, watching the various containers lashed to the ceiling as they swayed in the breeze.

He was at the wheel, as usual, and she heard him give a faint sigh as he paused finally. Emma rolled onto her stomach to watch him as he wiped at his face. The cut on his cheek was healing, the bruising going down around it as it scabbed. She wondered if it would scar, before realizing that she probably knew the answer to that.

Flexing his shoulders, he sighed again as the stiffness there gave a little. He stooped over too much, she realized, between the wheel and the way he leaned into the staff as he walked. She thought of Gold's ramrod posture. Another contradiction. Both men moved with a kind of fluidity, but where Gold was still and poised, Rumpelstiltskin fidgeted and touched his hair, his throat, his chest.

He rubbed one palm across his throat then, curving it around to rest at the back of his neck. "Going to the market tomorrow," He announced suddenly, voice hoarse with disuse.

She perked up then, rising up on her elbows. "What's at the market?"

Turning, his eyebrows lifted into the weary expression he favored. "Eggs. More meat. Salt. And a bit of leather. Perhaps some seeds. And I'll get more wool."

"You'll be able to trade your yarn for all that stuff?"

He nodded, looking out the window abruptly. "I suppose you'll want to come, too." He murmured.

"That'd be great, thanks."

He nodded again, still gazing out the open window for a long moment, before glancing back in her direction. "...Of course."

**II:**

The woods were cool and dark as they made their way slowly down the rough, uneven path. At Emma's insistence, she carried the largest basket of spun wool slung across her shoulders, another bundle in her arms. He took the lightest load on his own back, limping heavily even from that. She kept her pace alongside his, careful not to get too far ahead and make him hurry, or to fall behind and risk another argument over who should carry what.

She craned her neck to look around them, trying not to be unnerved by the faint hooting of an owl, despite the fact that the sun had risen just as they'd entered the trees. Above them, gnarled branches twined around one another, casting the wood into a murky darkness. There were curiously few insects and she wondered about that. Several wagons passed them, ignoring them completely as they headed in the direction they were going.

She watched him plod forward, wondering if they should try flagging one down, but he continued on without complaint. She realized sadly that without her, he would have made this trip carrying the entire burden alone.

With the two of them, they made good time, coming out of the thicket of trees to a large, sloping plain. The town rose up before them, surrounded by a tall wall of pikes driven into the soil. Guards crossed the ramparts and patrolled the open gateway.

No one stopped them as they entered the town, but she saw the guards exchange looks. Rumpelstiltskin ignored them, moving at the same slow, steady pace he'd adopted in the forest, keeping his head down. Emma hitched her bag higher on her back, keeping an eye out for pickpockets as she huddled close to him in an effort not to be separated by the crowds milling the streets.

He headed directly to the center of the town, past a large courtyard filled with booths and stalls, ignoring the shouts from vendors and the replies of customers. Instead, he led her towards a dingier part of town, where the air smelled of chemicals, making her eyes water and her head ache. She remembered Mr. Gold's water-proofing substance and realized she had judged it too harshly.

They stopped outside a large, grand house, attached to another stone building by an enclosed walkway. He shuffled up to the barn-like door of the second half, raising his stick to knock heavily.

A small panel in the wood slid back, and a voice barked a question so fast Emma didn't understand it. It slammed shut before he could reply, but the door swung open a moment later. He indicated with his head for her to follow, and headed inside.

The room appeared to be a sort of medieval office, the far wall dominated by a series of shelves of small, labeled slots, filled with papers. The keeper was a woman in her mid-forties, dressed in a blue gown made of something soft and fine, fastened at the sleeves with metallic buttons. She wore a large golden charm around her neck, her thick glossy hair piled on either shoulder. She was clearly wealthy and well-fed. The woman took a seat at the table on the far side of the room, dragging a huge ledger out of the corner and opening it.

"Rumpelstiltskin," She said, dipping a quill pen into the ink bowl on the desk, making a notation in the ledger. "How many?"

"Forty-seven." He replied, nodding at Emma to remove the burdens she carried.

"More than last month," She murmured, sounding pleased.

He said nothing, staring at the floor. Emma realized the floor here was swept stone, unlike the soil in the man's home.

Finally, the woman nodded, closing the book. "Fifteen pieces of silver."

He looked up then, expression alarmed. "That's what I had last month for only thirty-five."

She crossed her arms to her chest stubbornly. "That was last month. This is this month."

He opened his mouth and closed it, looking at the floor again. He gripped the staff in his hands tightly, knuckles white.

Feeling her patience break, Emma stepped up, one arm jerking at the woman in a stabbing gesture. "Then we'll give you thirty-five of them and keep the other twelve."

The woman looked from her to the man, eyes narrowing. "Who is she?" She demanded finally, as though noticing her for the first time.

"She's... She's my..."

"I'm Emma." She interrupted. "So what do you say? 35 for 15; take it or leave it."

The woman stared at her, eyes hard. One hand stole to her necklace, and she dropped it abruptly, shrugging. "Twenty pieces of silver for the lot."

"Twenty-five." Emma corrected sharply.

"It's not worth that," She snapped.

Emma crossed her arms to her own chest. "I think we both know it is."

After a long silence where the woman's expression shifted from rage to something closer to admiration, she nodded. "Twenty-five. But I expect 50 the next month."

"If you've the wool for it, you'll have it," The man spoke up finally, still staring at the floor. His knuckles were red again against the staff, and he seemed to be breathing again.

They followed the woman into the open storehouse the next room over, where a man took their bundles and counted the spools. Satisfied that their report was accurate, the woman left to retrieve the money, while Rumpelstiltskin and the worker packed the bags with fresh wool, stuffing them to the brim.

The worker smiled at Emma kindly when she took the bags back, murmuring, "I always hoped he'd find a wife."

"Oh, no, I'm not..." She began, but was interrupted by the return of the woman.

Emma reached out her hand for the money, counting the pieces twice before tying the bag shut. They excused themselves and headed for the exit, carrying their bags of wool

Outside, he stopped to sit against the low stone wall surrounding the building, the tension seeming to ease out of his shoulders. Somewhere nearby, bells began to toll the hour, low and ominous rumblings accompanied by lighter, singing peals. "Thank you," He said finally, looking away from her.

She plopped down beside him, holding out the bag of silver. "No problem. She was trying to rip you off."

He smiled faintly, puzzled by her words, but he took the pouch from her. "Grenelda drives a hard bargain, but she's fairer than most." Opening the leather ties, he counted out ten silver pieces, holding his hand out to her. "Here."

"Oh, no..." She said, holding up her hands in protest. "I couldn't."

"Please," He said, his smile almost wistful now. "You earned them. I can buy all I need for fifteen pieces. Take these. Buy yourself some clothes."

She looked down at her too-short dress and worn straw shoes. Sighing, she held out her hand, accepting the money.

"There's a shop at the end of this street that sells to our station," He murmured, indicating a whitewashed clay building on the corner. "Meet me at the gate to this area in one hour?"

She nodded. Wrapping the coins in a bit of cloth from her pocket, she stuffed them down her shirt to rest against the sash tied around her waist.

They parted ways and she watched him hobble off before turning back to the building he'd pointed out. "Oh, boy – shopping. My favorite..."

**III:**

An hour later, she left the shop, carrying another bag, containing her old clothes and new purchases. She wore a pair of soft-woven linen trousers now, tucked into a pair of leather boots, with a matching linen shirt and a long brown tunic with a leather sash. She carried a simple muslin gown, dyed yellow, and a new set of clothes for the man, since it appeared he only owned what he wore each day. She wore a warm tawny cloak now as well, tied around her shoulders.

All in all, she had spent eight pieces of silver after a great deal of bargaining. The fact that she had gotten so much for so little made her even angrier that the woman had tried to short-change them and that the man had been willing to accept it.

His non-confrontational attitude mystified and aggravated her. How could a man like this ever become the hard-hitting dealmaker she knew? Shaking her head, she hurried to the entrance of the textile district, scanning the crowds for signs of the man.

The bells began to ring out again, signaling another hour had passed. He was nowhere to be seen.


	5. 4: Kindness

_AN: I suck at writing action, so bear with me. Also, this chapter will really make much more sense if you've already read 'Burnt Offerings'…_

**IV: Kindness**

**I:**

For the first time, Emma felt truly lost. It was the first time she had felt really alone in this world. Not knowing where the man had gone distressed her. He was her only real link to Storybrooke, to where she belonged. She had known exactly where he was at any given moment in the days she'd been here, and she did not know what to do now.

The marketplace unfolded in a riot of colours, sounds, scents, and bodies. She craned her neck, hugging her packages close to her as she looked around, trying to spot him. She tried to catch people's eyes, asking if they'd seen a limping man with a staff, but most shrugged or walked on by.

Finally, a young woman struggling with a small sheep on a red ribbon pointed her in the direction of the livestock booths, clumped on the far side of the plaza. She thanked her and hurried off, shouldered about by the crowds.

It made sense for him to head in this direction, she realized, since he planned on buying eggs and meat. She jumped, startled, when a chicken suddenly fluttered up into her face, clucking and flapping its wings. A man lunged out and snatched it by the legs, glaring at her as though she were responsible. She gave him a look and moved on.

A woman nearby shouted at another vendor, clutching two dirty children by their wrists, a third and forth clinging to the backs of her skirts. Beyond, a man cut fish into strips, waving pieces over his head, his words completely unintelligible.

The air was rank with sweat, animals, and meat, and Emma fought a brief moment of panic as she gagged. This place was not like the quiet hamlet where the spinner lived. It was noisy and overcrowded, almost violently so.

She stepped out of the way of a young boy leading a skinny donkey through the mess of people, heading towards a booth near the back wall. Watching him go, she saw a dark doorway opened up just beyond the animal market, revealing a shaded alleyway that wound behind the houses lining the plaza.

Her senses told her this would be a good place to step out of the bustle for one reason or another, so she shouldered her way towards it, hoping the man might have had the same idea.

The alley was dark, the area overhead lined with thick wooden slats, creating another level of housing above her head. She blinked repeatedly, adjusting her eyes to the dimness and her ears to the relative quiet away from the crowds. Ahead, she heard a man cry out, a voice she recognized, and she broke into a run.

There were three of them; two middle-aged men and one not much more than a boy. The boy held a walking stick uncertainly in one hand, staring at the other two with trepidation. The men crowded around a body on the ground, their posture menacing.

Rumpelstiltskin lay on his side, curled against the wall, shaking his head as one of the men kicked at him with his boot. "I haven't done anything, please..." He pleaded, wringing his hands together at his collarbone.

"You've got a lot of nerve showing up around here again," The man said, pressing his foot against his stomach, applying pressure. His companion laughed darkly at that, and he continued, "I thought I told you I didn't want to see your face anymore."

"I have to work," He protested, pushing weakly at the man's boot with his trembling hands. "Madam Grenelda expects me..."

"Madam Grenelda can find plenty of spinners. Women doing women's work."

"It's all I can do..." He whispered, going still.

"Aye, that's true now, isn't it? And whose fault is that?" He aimed a kick then at his bad leg, making the man cry out, voice high and reedy with pain.

Having seen enough of this, Emma dropped her parcels and strode up to the boy. Without saying a word, she grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him around as she raised her fist, punching him in the face.

He fell to his knees and she scooped up the walking stick, turning just in time to raise it against one of the men when he came at her. She swung the stick like a bat and it connected with his ribs, making him stumble. A well-placed kick sent him spinning to the side.

She ducked the other man when he charged at her, abandoning his victim on the cobblestones. She went for his head with the stick this time, catching him in the neck with limited success. Spinning, she put herself between Rumpelstiltskin and the men, her back safe from an attack.

The leader came at her again, and Emma caught her breath as he grabbed hold of the collar of her dress. Jerking her shoulders, she pulled free, feeling the fabric pull and rip at the seam. Bringing her knee up, she forced it between his legs, making him stagger back with a howl.

His companion was checking on the boy, who was now sitting up clutching his broken, bleeding nose.

"Get the hell out of here," She snarled at them, brandishing the staff again.

At the mouth of the alley, the commotion had attracted a few onlookers, including the man with the chickens, his beefy arms folded across his leather apron, expression heavy, and the boy with the donkey. The men looked at Emma and back at the crowd.

Eventually, they turned away, muttering and limping towards the plaza.

Once she was satisfied they were gone, she knelt beside Rumpelstiltskin, helping him sit up. "Are you all right?" She demanded urgently, combing his hair out of his face.

His lip was bleeding where he had bitten it, and she could see a bruise darkening around his throat. He took several quick, shallow breaths, balling his hands into fists and releasing them rapidly, fingers trembling.

"Hey..." She said more gently, tucking a bit of hair behind his ear. "It's okay. You're okay. Can you stand? Do you think you can walk?"

He nodded, licking his lips, frowning reflexively when he tasted the blood. She stood up and held out her arm to him. He shifted his weight against her, taking the staff in his right hand as he gripped her arm with his left.

For a moment, he managed, but then his knees buckled and she caught him against the wall, wrapping her arms around his middle as she lowered him back down. "Okay... Okay, so that's not going to work..."

Emma turned when she heard hooves clopping on the cobblestones nearby. Looking up, she saw the boy with the donkey standing there, his expression sad. "Is he all right?" He asked quietly.

She shook her head, "I don't know. He's hurt."

"...I live in the village. I can take him home," He replied finally.

Rumpelstiltskin looked up then, expression incredulous then, eyes shining with unshed tears. He seemed stunned by the boy's generosity.

"That'd be great, thanks," Emma answered, smiling.

**II:**

It took less work than she would have liked to lift the man onto the beast's back, and she walked alongside him, one hand on his back to steady him as he leaned over the animal's neck, arms wrapped around it.

She'd tied their various bags to the basket filled with the boy's own purchases, having recovered most of the food the man had bought before being set upon in the alley. He said nothing during their journey, concentrating on staying on the donkey. The boy walked silently ahead of them, pulling the rope tied to the animal's bridle gently, taking his time.

The sun was low in the multi-coloured sky as they broke the tree line and Emma realized they had been gone the entire day. People looked up as they came into the hamlet, lowering their heads together and pointing in their direction. The boy squared his shoulders and continued, looking back at Emma with a faint smile.

When they reached the spinner's house, Emma took their bags, running them inside before returning to help the man down.

To her surprise, when she returned, another man, clearly the boy's father, stood there, holding out a hand to Rumpelstiltskin, offering to brace him as he stepped down.

Shakily, he did so, leaning heavily on the man, nearly falling again before he could get his staff under him. The man caught him, big hands almost gentle as he helped set him back onto his feet.

"...Thank you," He whispered, looking at the man and boy through his hair, shoulders hunched fearfully.

The man nodded silently, taking the donkey's bridle and turning away. His son followed him, only to turn back and call, "...I'm sorry. ...About the rock."

Rumpelstiltskin's mouth opened into a silent exhalation of surprise. Finally, he shook his head, "...Don't worry about it."

The boy nodded as well, looking even more like his father for a moment, before turning and running down the path the way the other man had gone.

Emma ducked her shoulder under his, tugging his left arm to lean across her shoulders, taking his weight, dismayed again at how fragile he seemed. "Okay, so let's get you inside..."

**III:**

He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, a faint flush in his cheeks as he tried not to look at her. She had helped him remove his tunic and his trousers, leaving him in his undershirt and bloomer-like undergarments. Pushing his undershirt up to his shoulders, she gently felt his ribs, checking for any broken bones. His stomach was bruised, but nothing seemed to be broken, a great relief considering what the medical circumstances in this place were likely to be.

His left leg was badly swollen behind the knee, a dark lump that spread up into his thigh, and his skin was scraped on his legs and arms. She sucked in a breath when she looked at his right leg, covered in scaly scar tissue that looked more like a burn than a wound. The muscle twisted as it moved behind his knee, thick and coiled under his skin, taunt and hard. Gently, she pulled his blanket up over his legs, tugging his shirt back down.

"I'll heat up what's left of the stew, okay?" She said, moving through the room to the hearth.

He didn't respond, still staring at the roof, his expression desolate.

She finally coaxed him to talking as she put away the purchases from the market, getting him to explain in short, clipped sentences where everything went. Some of the wool was dirty now, where it had been kicked away from him in the alley, but he assured her it would wash. Excusing herself, she went out to the well, carrying the bucket.

The woman who had spoken to her the first night sat on the well alone, her companion nowhere in sight. When she saw Emma, she stood up, hand dipping into her shawl. "Here..." She said, offering Emma a wrapped parcel.

Eyebrows rising in a question, Emma took it, folding back the corner to reveal a loaf of bread. "...Thanks..."

The woman smiled, taking her bucket from her hand and turning to the well, looping the rope around it with a practiced twist, lowering it down. Emma leaned against the stone wall, biting her lip in confusion.

"I heard he was hurt earlier." The woman said softly, looking down into the well. "That some men beat him and robbed him."

"Yeah."

"He's not..."

"...Well-liked. Yeah, I got that. I don't get why, though."

The woman smiled at her faintly before drawing up the bucket. "I was going to say he's not a bad man. He didn't deserve that, no matter what they say."

Emma took the offered bucket, clutching the bread to her chest. When the woman didn't say anything else, she turned and started back towards the house.

"My brother died on that wall," She called after her suddenly. Emma looked back and watched her arrange her shawl deliberately around her shoulders multiple times. "I used to hate him for that. But... Once you go, I think you begin to understand. That's why some get so angry. They understand exactly why he did it. And they're scared they could have been the same."

Emma nodded solemnly, turning the woman's words over in her mind. She stopped before she entered the house, looking out over the hamlet. To the east, the sky was growing a dark blue, fading into black as the stars came out. To the west, the sun set into a sky that was already the colour of blood. Shaking her head, she ducked under the sheet of skins and went inside.

**IV:**

When she returned, she found him struggling to stand up, leaning heavily on his staff, trying to force his legs to take his weight enough to stand. He fell back against the bed again, slamming the stick against the wall in the first display of anger she had ever seen from him.

For a moment, with his lips curled into a snarl, hair in his face, she recognized the man she knew, but, just as suddenly, it was gone, replaced by the shuttered grimace of despair she was beginning to associate with this man instead. When he realized she was standing there frozen, staring at him, his shoulders slumped and he turned his face away in shame.

"...I'm sorry." He whispered finally.

"What for? For being mad? I'd be mad, too. But you shouldn't be trying to get up yet. You're going to have to wait for the swelling to go down," She admonished, bringing the bucket and bread to where he sat. "...Those guys banged you up pretty hard."

He shrugged minutely, wincing as this pulled something in his bruised chest, before reaching down to manually lift his legs into the bed. Face flushing, he tucked the blanket around himself again, mindful of his half-bare legs.

"A lady at the well gave me this," She said, holding out the bread.

He took it in both hands as though he had never seen such a thing in his life. "...Why?" He asked finally, voice choked again.

"She said you're not a bad man," She answered gently. "She said you didn't deserve what those men did to you."

Emma turned away to give him a moment of privacy when she heard a sob break free of his chest. He crumpled in on himself, hugging the loaf of bread to his chest, crying bitterly for a few moments, terrible, throat-wrenching sobs as tears slid down his face and throat. She busied herself with the stew, preparing two bowls of it, and when she returned, he was more composed, staring at the bread in his lap with a bewildered expression.

They ate in silence, him sitting against the wall, her at the foot of the bed beside his curled-up legs.

When they had finished their stew, she unwrapped the bread, breaking a piece off for each of them. It was thick and doughy, more like a pastry than the bread she was used to. It peeled apart in layers and she used it to soak up the broth from her bowl.

Finally, he leaned over to set the bowl in the floor, before leaning back again, eyes on the ceiling. "I suppose you'll want to know what it is I've done," He said softly, voice surprisingly even.

She looked at him, surprised, holding her own bowl in both hands. "...I know you were in the war," She offered quietly.

"We all fight in the war. It's our duty, they tell us." He snorted bitterly, shaking his head. "Our duty... I was sixteen. Our task was to hold the wall. But we... we couldn't... They broke through, and they were..." His voice choked then with an old fear, his eyes widening with a boy's memory, a boy's horror. "They were not men. I... I ran." He said finally.

"You ran from the wall?" She prompted gently.

He drew his knees up to his chin, looking strangely young as he wrapped his arms around them, letting his head rest sideways against his knees. "I ran from the wall. ...The others... they panicked, and they followed. We lost the land. We'd held it for a hundred years."

"That couldn't be your fault," She protested.

He shook his head. "But it was. My fault. I demoralized them. I made them afraid. I was a coward and... and those people died, because of me."

"You were just one man - a kid, even. That's ridiculous," She insisted, feeling the horror in her chest changing swiftly to anger. "A kid can't make or break a war!"

Pursing his lips, he shook his head again, closing his eyes.

"...Is that what happened to your leg?" She asked finally, setting her bowl in the floor at last.

"Not exactly..." He murmured.

Emma reached out and put her hand on his knee suddenly. He lifted his head, turning to look at her, mouth inches from her fingertips.

"What happened to you?" She whispered.

"I was punished..." He replied, eyes sliding away. "I'll never run from anything again."

"Jesus," She hissed, her hand clenching on his kneecap for a moment before she controlled herself. "That's inhumane."

She knew what he would say before he said it, feeling that strange guilt clawing at her again as he simply whispered, "...Fairy tales."

Emma reached out then, one hand on the side of his head for a brief moment. He looked up, surprised, his legs falling away as he released them. She climbed up on her knees, crawling over to sit beside him. "Move over," she muttered, pushing against him until he shifted enough to make room for her.

Settling under the covers, she wrapped an arm around him in a loose, half-hug. He looked at her for a long moment, confused, and then relaxed against her, closing his eyes.

They sat there, side-by-side in a comfortable silence. Emma watched the fire burn lower and lower in the hearth as sounds of night settled all around them. He slept, mouth slightly open, leaning against her shoulder. She didn't move away.


	6. 5: Contact

_AN: Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter up! I actually had a bad fall and sprained my back, so I've been out of commission for a few days. I'm doing a bit better but it's still pretty painful to sit up for an extended period of time, so it makes it hard to get much writing done. Thank you, everyone for your lovely, lovely reviews! I'm not sure I much like this chapter, but you've waited long enough, so…_

**V: Contact**

**I:**

Emma rolled onto her side, coming up short when something jammed dully into her thigh. She blinked sleepily, rubbing her eyes with one hand. Golden light streamed in the window and she closed her eyes again for a moment against it. Rising up on one elbow, she pushed her tangled curls out of her face and took stock of the situation. Her neck and shoulder felt stiff from sleeping cramped on one side. She realized she must have fallen over at some point, bent half-way around the pillow at the head of the bed.

Rumpelstiltskin lay beside her, head on the pallet, arms curled around his chest protectively. His right leg was bent, drawn up high against his side. His knee had been poking into her leg. The blanket lay tangled around their ankles, apparently having been kicked off during the night.

She watched him sleep, surprised by the sudden squeeze of tenderness in her chest. He looked softer in sleep, the lines of his face smoother, eyebrows drawn into a peaceful, neutral expression. He slept with his mouth open, stirring the hair that draped across his face with each breath.

He looked young again, and she found herself wondering exactly how old he even was. She had no idea how old Gold could be, but he did seem younger than the man she knew, though it could have just been his demeanor. She tried to picture him as a sixteen year old boy, being sent off to face monsters, only to find the worst were really his own kind. She thought of herself at sixteen, prickly, tough and mean, and wondered if he had been the same. She couldn't see it.

If someone had asked her what Mr. Gold had been like as a young man, she'd have guessed a punk or a bully, but this man seemed to gentle and too fragile for such things. She'd seen kids like that in the system growing up - it either made you hard or it broke you down. Some girls, some boys, too, were unable to cope with the harshness of their situation and fell apart. Emma had always promised herself she would never be one of those people. She lived her life on her own terms and wanted and needed nothing from other people.

Suddenly, she thought of Henry, with his wide, almost hesitant smile, and Mary Margaret, with her warm hugs and sympathetic reassurances. She wondered when needing no one had changed. She thought of the way Rumpelstiltskin smiled at her shyly before handing her another bowl of stew, and the way his eyes had shone when the boy had offered them aid.

Gently, she reached out to brush the hair from his face, feeling the warmth of his breath against her fingertips. He made a small sound, turning onto his back, his leg twitching as it went slack and stretched down, shoving the blanket away further.

She thought of Graham suddenly, the way his mouth had curved up at the corners, dimples half-hidden behind his scruffy beard. Rumpelstiltskin had a bit of hair on his face this morning, and she realized he must shave somehow before she normally woke.

Once again, she wondered again if she had been in love with Graham, before telling herself that she'd barely known him. She barely knew this man, even less so, for all that she did and didn't know about his counterpart. And yet, again, she felt a bit of her resolve crumbling when she least expected it.

All of her life, she had been alone. She had built up walls around herself because it was necessary, and because it was preferable to having to constantly be reminded how few people really wanted you. But here was another person who clearly knew very well what it was like to be unwanted.

She was no stranger to relationships; bright, shining, physical entanglements that burned hot and burned out fast. It had always proven too hard to balance her life with men involved. There was always that risk, that fear, that pressure to prove herself their equal, their better. She demanded respect and independence and acknowledgement, and there were always too few men willing to give those, it seemed. She wanted to be the strong one, the powerful one, the one who was needed. She was not some fairy tale princess waiting for a prince to rescue her. Henry called her a savior, and that was one fairy tale role she found herself willing to take.

Her impulses suddenly at war with her common sense, Emma rolled closer on the bed, reaching out to brush her fingers over his hair once more. He did not stir this time, merely laid there, peacefully asleep. Before her rational mind could get the best of her, she ducked her head, lowering her mouth just above his. Feeling her skin flush from her throat to her cheeks, she kissed the sleeping man.

Eyes sliding shut, she put one hand beside his head to brace herself, the other still lightly combing through his hair. The position was awkward, but his lips were warm. She could taste the roughness of his lips, chapped and bitten, still swollen and bruised on the side where he'd bit himself in the alley. He tasted of water, of salt, and of something else she couldn't identify.

His mouth opened under hers, and she turned her head in response, kissing harder now without even meaning to. A breath shuddered between them, from his mouth to hers, and she swallowed reflexively, opening her eyes. He was staring up at her, something like wonder and a bit like fear in those wide brown eyes.

Immediately, Emma surged away, coming up hard against the wall, one hand over her mouth.

He curled away from her at her movement, wringing his hands together against his chest. "I'm sorry!" He cried, ducking his head, hair covering his burning face. He pressed himself flat against the pallet, cringing as though he expected her to strike him or shove him out of the bed.

She caught her breath, heart still thudding in her chest, finally shaking her head. "No, I'm sorry... That was... I don't even know what that was. Jesus. I'm so sorry."

He seemed confused by her apology, sitting up with a wince, rubbing a hand through his hair, tucking it behind his ear. She'd never seen a grown man so red in the face. "...No, you don't need to... It was..."

He turned away abruptly, feet hitting the floor. Reaching for his staff, he looked down and realized that he was still not wearing his pants. When he clutched down the bed for the sheet, she crawled around him, getting off the bed, glad she'd fallen asleep fully dressed. "I'll just let you get dressed, then..." She said quickly, nearly stumbling over one of the bags of wool in her haste to escape the cabin.

Outside, she leaned her arm against the sun-warmed stone of the house, bowing her head as she blinked back surprising moisture in her eyes. "What the hell was that?" She snarled at herself, clenching her fists. "Get a hold of yourself!"

She felt as though she'd betrayed his trust, and his apparent rejection hurt her as much as her wounded pride over her own weakness and stupidity. Angrily, she turned and stalked off in the direction of the woods.

**II:**

Emma stalked through the woods angrily, kicking dried leaves and tree branches out of her path. She crossed her arms to her chest, wishing she'd thought to grab her cloak. The chill of early morning still hung lazily in the woods, the sun too low and weak to penetrate the thick canopy. Around her, she heard leaves rustling sleepily, and water running in the nearby stream.

Taking several deep breaths, she leaned against a large rock off the path, letting the sounds of nature calm her. She was embarrassed and annoyed. "What were you thinking?" She snarled at herself, raking a hand through her matted curls. Her hair felt oily and frizzed and she hated the weight of it on the back of her neck suddenly.

"Is this supposed to be some kind of joke?" She shouted suddenly, tilting her head up to look at the gnarled branches overhead. "Is there some kind of lesson I'm supposed to learn here?"

A flock of birds exploded into flight on her left, wings fluttering against one another as they fled the sound of her voice.

"Whatever it is I'm here for, I wish you'd tell me, so I can go back to where I belong!" She didn't know who she was even talking to, and there was, of course, no response.

Finally, she dropped her arms to her sides with a sigh, staring at her new boots, already caked in dried mud from the journey the day before. Shaking her head, she turned and began gathering fallen branches for kindling. At least that way, she'd have some excuse to have been gone so long.

**III:**

When she returned to the cottage, the sun had climbed higher overhead. Her stomach growled, but she ignored it, nodding at the people she passed on her way into the hamlet's edges. Inside, the cottage was cool and dark; the only sound the gentle creak of the wheel.

He sat on his stool, not looking up when she entered, his rhythm never faltering as he carefully fed more wool into the orifice. She watched him for a moment, cataloguing the slight movement of his head, the way his throat muscles worked as he counted silently. His fingers flitted over the wool, delicate and feather-light. The skein was half-full, so he must have started not long after she had left.

When the wool in his lap ran out, she turned and headed to the fire, dropping her kindling beside the hearth.

"You came back," He murmured finally.

She stood with her back to him, staring at the stones leading up from the hearth, hands on her sides. She wished she had pockets to jam them in - it would be easier to look casual if she had any idea what to do with her hands.

"I just needed some air," She replied eventually, taking her hands off her hips for fear of looking too aggressive. She crossed her arms experimentally, but that felt angry too. Finally, she turned, leaning one elbow against the hearth stones, letting her other arm dangle at her side. "I'm sorry if I worried you."

He shrugged, picking at another pile of wool, eyes in his lap. "You're free to do as you please," He said softy.

"Are you angry?" She asked curiously, recognizing the clench in his jaw from his counterpart.

"Why should I be?" He deflected, expression and tone mild.

"Because I..." She raised her hand and let it fall back to her side with a slap against her thigh. "I made things awkward between us."

"Things have always been awkward between us," He answered.

"You're being curiously unhelpful in resolving this issue," She said, voice cross.

"Is that what we're doing?" He began to curl the wool onto the leader string, pumping the pedal to start the wheel going.

She watched it turn for a moment, feeling her annoyance rise with each revolution. Finally, Emma stopped and crossed the space to stand in front of him. Leaning into his personal space, she grabbed the wheel in one hand, stopping it.

He immediately pulled off the pedal, looking up at her with actual anger in his eyes. When he met her own expression, his gaze faltered and he looked away, that downcast expression overtaking his features again.

"Don't do that!" She protested, making him look up again, started, "Don't shut down like that. That's not a solution, that's running away!"

She regretted her choice of words as soon as they came out of her mouth, but the look on his face made her wish the floor could swallow her up as punishment for them. Emma took a step back, letting go of the wheel.

He sat there, hands clenching and unclenching in his lap. He looked as though he might cry again. Finally, he let out a deep, shuddering breath and got to his feet.

Emma stood her ground as he limped around the spinning wheel. His left leg still seemed swollen, and he moved slowly, in pained, deliberate steps. His expression was closed, jaw tight, eyes narrowed with determination.

For a brief moment, she wondered if he was going to take a swing at her when he shifted his weight onto the staff to raise his left hand. Instead, it curved up and around her head, where it tangled in her hair. He pulled her forward and she went with him, eyes sliding closed when she registered his intention.

He kissed her fiercely, unguardedly, like a man who had been waiting for her mouth his entire life. In some ways, she guessed he had.


	7. 6: Fortification

_AN: Hello, everyone. Sorry for the huge delay – my back is doing much, much better now, but I'm still not really feeling my best, so please bear with me. I want to thank everyone for your lovely, lovely comments and well-wishes. This is such a sweet and friendly fandom and you're all so wonderful! I'd especially like to thank Cat4444 for her amazing, thought-provoking feedback, which helped me sort myself out enough to figure out what I wanted to say here. _

_In this chapter, people talk and talk and talk and talk and absolutely nothing of any import or interest happens. Mostly. Whoops. D:_

**VI: Fortification**

This kiss seemed the exact opposite of the one she had stolen that morning. She could feel his palm, broad and warm on the back of her head, tugging lightly on her hair in a way that was not painful, but very present. His mouth worked against hers, tongue slipping between them to taste against her own. He leaned too far forward against her, leaning his right shoulder into her for balance.

Slowly, she raised her own arms, one curving around his waist to steady him, the other finally climbing up to thread through his hair, combing through it with her fingers. His hair was thin and soft against her fingers, and she tucked her other arm around him tighter, shifting their combined weight when he started to lean.

When her grip tightened on him, he suddenly broke off, stumbling back a few painful steps, leaning heavily against his staff. He rubbed the back of his left wrist against his mouth, frowning at the faint streak of red left behind by his split lip.

Both of them looked at opposite corners of the room, catching their breath.

Finally, Emma said softly, "Well, I guess that makes us even?"

His eyes flitted to her face and he frowned. "Even?" He repeated. His voice was low and ragged, and he swallowed repeatedly to moisten his throat.

She could see the pulse point hammering in his neck from five paces away. She jammed her hands down where pockets would have been in a pair of jeans, wiping her palms on her trousers when they hit air. "I just meant that I kissed you and... and you kissed me. So we're even."

"...Even." He said again, leaning both hands on the staff now, looking weary.

Her stomach growled, loud in the quiet of the room, and she felt her face flush further. His lips twitched up in a ghost of a smile, and he indicated the hearth with his head.

She nodded and turned around to stoke up the remnants of the fire, grateful for something to do. She heard him hobble across the room to his bed, where he let out a long, low hiss as he sat gingerly.

Neither spoke while she heated some of the leftover stew and pulled free a few more slices of the thick, butter bread wrapped in a nearby basket. Finally, she passed him his portion of the food and sat hesitantly on the bed beside him.

He shifted to the right, and she studied her food, unsure if he had moved to give her more space or to create some between them.

Finally, he spoke, so quietly she nearly didn't hear him over the sensation of her own chewing. "...I was afraid you wouldn't come back."

Emma turned to study his face. His lips quirked to the left in a sad half-smile, letting his eyes cast down to the side. "I'm sorry," she offered eventually, feeling that sense of half-shame she felt when he looked so unhappy.

"Well," he inhaled, shoulders and expression perking up deliberately, "It's done with now." He set his own bowl aside, rubbing his chest with his right hand, palming his way up to his throat and back down nervously.

She scratched at the back of her head, trying not to think about the way his fingers had felt tugging her hair just a few minutes earlier. "...So what happens now?" She asked, looking at him with a sideways glance.

He looked over to her, and then back to the spinning wheel. "I should get back to work," He answered, but she could hear the hesitation there, the invitation to continue the conversation.

"Where I come from," She began, holding her bowl in both hands, feeling the weight of it against her palms. "Where I come from..." She didn't know where she was going with this, and she flexed her hands feeling the fired clay under her muscles, remembering the warmth of his breath on her fingers and the solid curve of his waist under her hand.

"I knew a man - Well, I really didn't know him all that well, really," She corrected, biting her lip for a moment before launching into a rambling outpouring, "He liked me. I mean... I guess he did. He seemed like he did. He said he did." She nodded to herself.

He drew up his left leg, bending it to turn and face her, hands clasped in his lap expectantly, letting his bad leg turn sideways on the floor, straight-kneed.

Emma sighed and kept talking, surprising herself as she continued, "He seemed very cool and collected at first, but then... all of the sudden, he just started falling apart." She shook her head sadly at the memory, eyes far away.

"He was looking for something. He said he didn't know how to feel anything - like he didn't have a heart. And when he kissed me... it seemed like everything just made perfect sense for him at last. I don't know how, but he sorted it all out, just like that... And I never could."

"What happened to him?" He said hoarsely, eyes on her face.

"He died," She said quickly, feeling a prickle of tears at the corners of her eyes. She rubbed her face, expression almost quizzical when her fingers came back moist. "He had a heart attack. And he died." She laughed with no humor, "Right in front of me. I couldn't do a thing to save him."

"I'm sorry," He offered. They sat quietly, both looking in opposite directions again. Finally, he exhaled, squaring his shoulders. Still looking away, he asked, "Is that why you kissed me this morning? You were trying to find answers? Trying to feel?"

Emma scratched at the side of her head again, sighing. "I don't know. I... I've never been a very trusting person. Kind of comes with the territory of the way I grew up. I was an orphan, bounced from foster family to foster family. They all seemed nice at first, but then it always fell apart. Drugs, drinking, violence... "

She took a deep, cleansing breath. "…Sometimes they just didn't even care. I was a paycheck to them and they looked right through me. ...I think those kinds were the worst. 'Cause even if you're angry at someone, you have to see them to hit them, you know?"

He nodded, looking down. She followed his gaze to where his leg turned out at the side, and she knew he did know.

"It's a lot easier not to care," He murmured.

"I've gotten pretty good at it," She agreed.

He glanced at her, that hint of a smile back on his lips. "But that's not entirely true," He said. Raising his hand, he tipped one finger at her as he spoke, "_You_ care about everyone. You don't want to, and maybe you don't always notice. But you do. You want to help people like you were never helped. You want to leave things better than you found them. You're a good person, Emma Swan."

She snorted faintly, "Well, I don't think I'm a _bad_ one."

"And you're not empty, either," He finished.

She smiled then, faint but genuine. Wanting to do something to show her appreciate in response, she tried to imagine what Mary Margaret would do in a situation like this. Reaching over, she let her hand rest over his clasped ones, patting him lightly in what she hoped would be interpreted as a comforting, grateful gesture.

"So what about you?" She asked, shifting her right thigh to turn inward towards him, until they were nearly face-to-face. "What were you looking for?"

He inhaled again, eyebrows rising nearly to his hairline. He worried his lower lip, trying to find the words he wanted. "I... I've been alone... For quite some time now. I don't know how to... I've never actually... uh."

Emma's face twisted into something sad and surprised, mouth opening in a grimace. "Don't tell me... I stole your first kiss?"

His eyes flared wide for a moment, brows quirking as his shoulders twitched in a minute shrug. "Yeah, well," He mumbled.

She rubbed her face again in a sheepish gesture. "How old are you?" She blurted.

He frowned and pursed his lips. "34?" It almost sounded like a question.

"Huh." Her throat twitched in surprise and she nodded. "That's not so bad."

"For what?" He murmured. She realized he was blushing lightly, hands wringing together in his lap as he continued to study to right corner of the walls.

"...Observation," She said finally.

He snorted at that, nodding.

"I'm sorry I kissed you without asking," Emma said softly, looking steadily at him.

"A bit of warning would be... Would be nice," He replied.

"So you're saying we could try it again?" She murmured, shifting to sit a bit closer on the bed. Internally, she wondered what the hell she was doing. This man was a stranger, even more than Graham had been. He wasn't Gold. He wasn't even from the same universe, according to Henry. His next question caught her off-guard.

He turned to look at her, his smile tired now. "Why would you want to?"

_Good question_, she thought, biting her lip.

"We've only just met each other," He said, looking away again. "I don't want you to think that it's... I don't want you to feel obligated to do anything, just because you think perhaps you should..."

"Whoa, whoa, wait a second!" She cried, raising a hand to stop him, "Are you saying you think I kissed you because I thought it was expected of me?"

"Didn't you?"

"I did it because I wanted to!" She snapped, surprising the pair of them with her quick and confident response. Blushing, she turned her declaration over in her head, examining it from all angles.

It wasn't that he was attractive, she thought, but her brain quickly supplied the thought that he certainly wasn't _unattractive_ either, which she shoved back into another corner to examine later. He was kind and gentle, so unlike the forceful, almost gangster-like machinations of Gold.

He had known hardship, real pain and suffering, even more than she had. But where she had built confidence and determination around herself like a fortress, he had only walls of fear and self-doubt.

She realized he was right about her, that he had softly and quietly cut right to the heart of her - her desire to be a hero, be Henry's savior, and right wrongs to give people better lives. That if she could somehow fix others lives, it would somehow make up for being unable to fix her own.

She thought of the way Gold had sized her up during the election; the way he had been one step ahead of her every emotion, her every action. She could see shades of similarities between the two of them, a phrase here, a gesture there, and in his core, a perceptive, quiet person who could see what made people tick.

Emma had told herself countless times that she did not like Gold, no matter how pleasant or helpful or intelligent or capable he seemed. She didn't like people who didn't play by 'good' rules, and, while he certainly ascribed heavily to a playbook of some kind, it was one she really could not feel good about most of the time.

Still, she realized in her internal contemplation that she did like Rumpelstiltskin. The world was stacked against this man, and his life was lonely and painful at every turn. Yet, still he worked hard, and didn't give up or let his circumstances destroy him. He'd gone to the market because he needed to; even though he had to have known those men would set on him. He'd stopped to help a stranger in the woods, knowing no one would have done the same for him. He'd given her food, shelter, clothing, as well as his privacy.

She thought of Gold's distress over having been robbed; his face when he realized someone had violated his sanctuary. Rumpelstiltskin was a private man as well, but he had bared himself to her, allowed her to see his vulnerabilities, and trusted her not to exploit them, based on his assessment of her character. He thought she was a good person, and so he wanted to help her. Not out of want of repayment, as Gold would have done, but out of simple kindness.

Emma realized she was touched by this complex, shyly dedicated man. She had spent a lifetime dismissing romantic possibilities, distilling the interactions down to the physical to avoid feeling vulnerable to another person. But here was a man who would not, who could not hurt her, even though the same could not be said for her to him. In letting his walls down, she realized he had weakened a cornerstone of her own.

Finally, she realized he was staring at her, eyes concerned, body leaning towards her expectantly. She wondered how long she had been puzzling through this in her mind, staring at nothing silently. Her face flushed and she cleared her throat. "Uh... Sorry. Got lost in thought."

He nodded, relaxing back again, one hand curving up to rub at the back of his neck. She watched his hand, fingers gripping and loosening around the column of his throat, reminded somehow of the way he nodded to himself while spinning.

"Hey..." Emma said softly, edging closer on the bed. "Can I... uh..."

"...Yes." He said almost breathlessly, almost excitedly, his expression melting into something so tender that for a moment, she couldn't move.

Instead of kissing him, Emma leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him. He stiffened for a moment, before leaning into the embrace. She felt his own arms, wiry and warm, around her back, her shoulders. She held him tightly, chin hooked over his shoulder, one hand in his hair, the other around his middle.

He let out a sigh that she felt through her whole ribcage. She closed her eyes when he turned his head. Her chin dipped into empty air as he shifted out from under her, and then she felt his mouth on hers, hesitant and questioning.

Smiling into the kiss, she opened her mouth to him, feeling the cornerstone of her sturdy walls finally collapse completely.


	8. 7: Skin

_I am SO SORRY for the delay. I've just now finished my last round of horrible meds and really felt like sitting up and being creative and writing again. I apologize heartily for how long it took to get this chapter out. I hope it was worth it and that no one gave up on me!_

**VII: Skin**

Emma sighed as Rumpelstiltskin's fingers threaded gently through her curls. He combed through the length of her hair, sighing into their joined mouths as he leaned into her, his other hand coming up to trace her face. She held fast to the back of his neck with her right hand, mirroring his exploration of her face with the other. His sigh turned to a moan as she curved her hand down the front of his throat and into the loose collar of his tunic.

He was warm to the touch and she curled closer to him, breaking the kiss to curve her head into his shoulder, her lips tracing over the sharp curve of bone there. The hand on her head gripped tighter and he tumbled suddenly to one side, taking her with him to sprawl sideways across the pallet. She could feel him beneath her, his interest in the proceedings obvious and almost painfully endearing as he flushed and shied away from her.

She captured his mouth again, letting her hand creep under his tunic, feeling the heat of his chest and the shape of his ribs. He bucked his head as her hand found one small nipple, pinching gently as she feathered more kisses over his throat. Emma let her knee slip gently between his legs, pressing against his arousal, feeling her own body respond to his enthusiasm and his obvious innocence.

He didn't seem to know where to put his hands, so she gripped them in her own, kissing him again, long, slow and teasing. He gasped her name as she pulled back, sitting up off of him to strip her tunic over her head. Hesitating a moment, she pulled her undershirt with it, leaving her chest bare to his gaze.

His eyes widened exponentially, almost comically, as he stared up at her, mouth moving in formless words as he stared. She flushed, feeling self-conscious and strangely powerful at the same time. When one of his hands hesitated near her left hip, she reached down and captured the hand, pulling it up to press over her breast. He closed his hand over her flesh, making her close her eyes with a sigh. She could feel her heart hammering against his fingers as she reached for his other hand, bringing it up to her other breast.

He lay there beneath her, long fingers flexing over her flesh as his eyes raced over her skin in confusion and fascination. At her prompting, he squeezed her flesh harder, drawing another groan from her throat. He let out a shaky moan in return, his fingers curling around her nipple timidly. She hissed, pressing herself into his hand, and he pinched the bud tighter in reflex. She grinned as he whimpered in surprise, and she leaned down to steal another kiss.

Still leaning over him, she trailed her fingers across his lips, settling closer, tugging his hair until his mouth was inches from her breast. He licked his lips, looking up at her for confirmation, and very slowly, he opened his mouth, running his tongue over her flesh. Emma moaned, gripping his hair tighter, pressing them harder together. He wrapped his arms around her back, kissing and sucking at her with a hunger that was almost desperation. After a moment, he shook her hand free of his hair, only to turn to her other breast for the same treatment.

Emma closed her thighs hard around his hips, pressing down towards him, groaning again as she wrapped both arms around his neck, cradling him close. His hands skimmed lower, settling on her hips and holding her far more gently than she'd like. With a growl, she rolled her hips down against his, wringing a high-pitched cry as he jerked away from her with a gasp. Her nipples hardened in the cooler air once his mouth had left them, and she bit into his throat, running her teeth sharply against his collarbone to make him shiver just as she was.

He raised his arms obediently when she tugged on his shirt, yanking his tunic and undershirt away, leaving his chest bare to her explorations. It was his turn to groan and squirm as she licked and sucked a trail from his throat down his sternum to the waist of his trousers. Her hands hesitated on his belt and she looked up, meeting his heavy-lidded gaze.

He seemed stunned, lying on his back staring up at her, his hands clutched to his bare chest now, as though trying to protect himself. She felt her face flush and drew back, suddenly feeling ashamed for having pushed him so far, so fast. When he realized she was drawing away, he reached for her shoulder, squeezing her arm as he murmured, "Oh, no, no, no, don't stop... please..."

"Are you... Are you okay with this?" She asked softly, raising her hand to squeeze his where he held her shoulder.

He nodded shakily, mouth opening, but he couldn't manage and words. His eyes were half-open and glazed with passion. She could feel him trembling beneath her, but he had asked her to continue. She realized he had no idea what he was doing, but that he clearly didn't want her to stop.

Smiling at him as reassuringly as she could manage, she reached for his belt in both hands. He closed his eyes, falling back on his elbows with a sigh as she pulled the leather away, her hands returning to his hips. Lips curving into a smile that was far less reassuring, she leaned her head down, mouthing over his skin as she bared it, sliding his pants down his slender legs.

She was careful not to let the fabric linger on his injured leg, letting her palms curve under his legs when she was done, feeling the curve of his buttocks where it melted into his thighs. He squirmed, a breathy sound exploding from his throat; ending in a higher sound she would generously not call a squeak as she let her breath ghost over his erection.

Still smiling, Emma opened her mouth, letting her tongue slide up the length of him, just barely touching him. She was surprised to see he was uncircumcised, though when she considered, the idea wasn't really that surprising. She wondered idly if Gold would be the same, as she lifted one of her hands to slide back his foreskin, lips touching him more firmly now. He was panting, hips shaking with the force of his quick, shallow gasps. His good leg curled around her, wrapping around her shoulders, pulling her down closer. She used her hand on his thigh to control her fall, taking him further as he moaned her name. He sank one hand into her hair, twisting her curls around his fingers in a way that was deliciously rough; his other hand gripping the sheet covering the pallet.

Emma couldn't hold back a throaty chuckle as he spilled in her mouth, and she swallowed reflexively, mentally cataloging his taste. It was thick and bitter, with just a hint of salt, unique and not unpleasant, considering. He opened his eyes and stared at the roof overhead, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes as he tried to catch his breath. She was briefly concerned for the trembling of his chest as he gasped for air, and she slithered up his body, kissing him without thinking.

He opened his mouth, hand still in her hair, tongue brushing hers despite what she'd just done with her mouth. She reached down, stroking him gently, teasing him with her fingertips until she felt him beginning to swell again under her touch. He broke free of the kiss, looking down in shock, making her laugh again at the expression on his face.

"It's good, right...?" She murmured, biting lightly on the shell of his ear.

He nodded, a shaky, breathy whisper of assent, his throat working over another desperate breath as he bucked up into her hand. She resumed placing sucking kissing on his throat and collarbone as she continued to stroke him back to hardness. He whimpered her name, his hand stealing back up to her left breast, distracting her momentarily with several delicious pulls and pinches.

Grinning, she unfastened her own pants, kicking them free of all but one leg, rubbing their bare flesh together, making them both moan. He held her by the waist now, kissing at her throat, mirroring the way she had teased and tasted him. Emma tucked her hair behind her shoulder and reached down again, gripping his returned erection, making him cry out again, head slamming back against the pillow. Gently, slowly, trying not to startle him too much, she eased herself closer until he pressed against her.

Emma closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and used her fingers to part herself open as she slid down onto him. It had been a long time, longer than she cared to remember, and she slammed down harder than she intended, clutching at his hips hard enough to bruise suddenly. He shot up against her, curling at the waist as he cried out sharply, grabbing for her shoulders, hands sliding weakly down her arms as he let out a long, shuddering breath. She laughed breathlessly, bowing her head, hair spilling across his bare chest as she caught her breath.

"This... you..." He reached for her face then, tears streaking down his face again as he cradled her chin in his hand. She reached for his face in return, stroking gently across his cheek, fingers brushing the faint scar where the boy had cut his face with a rock those weeks ago when she'd first arrived. She stared at his eyes, hopelessly wide, endlessly dark, and shining with an emotion she had never seen directed at her in her entire life.

With a sound not unlike a sob, Emma let her head drop down, seeking his mouth again. He clung to her, not frightened now, but comforting, cradling her gently with both arms, surprisingly strong, achingly tender.

She heard the sound of faint sobs, pitched all wrong to be him for a change, and she realized suddenly she was crying. Kissing desperately at his mouth, short contacts that broke into hard breaths, she began to move, lifting herself up before letting her body press back down. He held her, arms wrapped tightly around her shoulder, whispering her name again and again into her tangled hair. She buried her face in the soft brown hair at the nape of his neck, curling her hands over his shoulders as though he would slip away.

They moved together messily, wet and hot and almost brutally deep, as his body arched up where hers bowed down. There were tears on her face, on his throat, and it was impossible to tell whose they were. He could feel his fingers counting each vertebrae of her spine and she curled her toes into her next thrust, feeling something give way inside of her for the first time in what felt like years. He gasped out loud, voice rippling in her ear as she clenched around him. She ground down again and again, moaning syllables that might have been his name as he gave a tiny, stunned cry as something hot and thick spread between them.

She continued pushing her hips back and forth as he softened inside her, keeping her face buried in his neck. One of his hands came up to comb his hair out of his eyes as he stared up at the ceiling. She burrowed her cheek against his chest. His voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through her deeper and harder than any of the sexual things they had done. "...Emma, I... I do think I love you..." He murmured.

She kissed him again, shushing him, and he turned her sideways and curled into her, still pressed flush with her, still panting for breath. Her eyes felt heavy, her skin deliciously warm. He was soft and hard against her, all at the same time, and she tugged the blanket up over their shoulders, trying to burrow into his very skin. He kissed the top of her hair and repeated her name, again and again. She whispered his name into his hair, one palm on the side of his face, unable to think of anything else to say.


	9. 8: Spirit

_This part is pathetically short and boring and weird. It is NOT worth the wait, and I apologize for that, whole-heartedly in advance. I've just been having a bit of trouble making this story gel right now, and I've been very ill and also moving, so that's wrecked my writing schedule. I'm sorry, everyone. You're all so lovely and I… am not up to the task of sharing work deserving of such wonderful readers. _

_This chapter contains allusions to rape and violence._

**VIII: Spirit**

With an exhalation half-sigh, half-groan, Emma curled onto her side, burrowing her face into the pillow. The pillow felt harder than she remembered, and she opened her eyes to see she was pressed against Rumpelstiltskin's chest. Her limbs were messily entwined with his own, one leg thrown over his waist and her arms around his middle. His hands were slack across her back, his legs bent at the knees as he rolled into her at the hips.

Suddenly, Emma became aware of what had awoken her when she heard it again. Sitting up with a start, she slipped free of his body with a pang of regret. Outside, the woman screamed a third time.

Snatching up the closest clothes at hand, she was already ducking under the pile of skins when she realized she'd pulled on Rumpelstiltskin's tunic by mistake. The bright sun disoriented her for a moment, making her throw a hand up over her eyes. When she could see properly, she realized the sleepy hamlet had exploded into activity.

Knights, most on horseback, and a few on foot, crowded around a knot of villagers. Two men held a sobbing woman as she struggled to claw her way towards a small boy being lifted onto a horse.

"Please!" The woman cried, turning towards the largest of the men, a hatchet-faced man with a cruel expression, watching from the horse closest to the spinner's house. "They said the age had gone back up again! He's only 15!"

"That's practically a man now!" The commander roared, voice dripping with false cheer. "The age is whatever I say it is on the day the Duke needs more men. Be grateful we're only taking one. The village beyond the forest lost seven today."

"Please, he's all I have..." The woman begged, but the soldiers holding her threw her down into the dirt. One of them raised his sword hilt as though to strike her and pulled back at the last moment. She collapsed there, wrapping her arms around herself and sobbing.

"You peasants..." The commander spat, "It is an honor to serve his lordship! We shouldn't have to go through this every time."

"Maybe you should start leaving kids alone if it bothers you that much," Emma snapped, striding out of the shadows of the building now. Across the crowds, she saw the woman from the well, standing with her companion, anxiously shaking her head. The boy with the donkey and his father were nowhere to be seen.

The man's horse whinnied violently as he abruptly reined it around. His face looked furious now, the muscles on his throat cording and thickening. Just as abruptly, his expression shifted into surprise.

At that moment, a trembling hand closed over her wrist, making her wheel around. Rumpelstiltskin stood behind her, wearing only his loose pants, unbelted, and clutching his staff heavily in his other hand. She could see his thin chest rising and falling rapidly. His expression was unlike any she had seen on this man, one that would have been more fitting on Gold - eyes narrowed, brows drawn down, mouth twisted into a grimace.

"...Emma..." He said softly, but his eyes were on the man on horseback, "Please go back inside."

"Well, well, well..." The man's laugh boomed out again, making Emma whirl back to stare at him. He swung his leg easily over the side of his horse, dismounting and striding towards them. "...So little Spindleshanks has finally found a woman."

"His name is Rumpelstiltskin," Emma snapped, feeling her own face reddening with anger on the slight man's behalf.

The man looked her over appraisingly now, reaching out with one gloved hand, intending to touch her hair. She stepped back, keeping her head held high, glaring at him. "She's got spirit, little Spindleshanks..." The man said approvingly, turning his attentions to the spinner.

Emma's eyes widened as the man repeated his attempted gesture, reaching out to brush a bit of Rumpelstiltskin's hair behind his ear. "Now how did a coward like you end up with so fine a woman? Did you buy her?"

"Hey!" She snapped, grabbing his arm now, jerking it away from the smaller man.

The responding slap sent her tumbling back on her rear in the dirt and she sat there a moment, stunned by how much power the man had packed into the blow. He reached again for Rumpelstiltskin, pinching his chin between his fingers now to force his head up to meet his gaze. "Little Rumpelstiltskin..." He murmured voice oddly reflective as he gazed over the man's bared chest and thin arms before returning his attentions to his face. "You've almost become a man now..."

"...H...Hordor, please..." He whispered, voice shaking, and he squirmed backwards against his staff, clearly unnerved by the man's touch.

Emma rolled to her side and got back to her feet, coming up beside him to wrap her arm around his. She could feel him trembling against her side, his bad leg quaking as though it were spasming.

The man, Hordor, looked from the spinner to Emma, smiling broadly again. "...I don't have time for this today, sadly. Perhaps the next time I'm by this way, I'll pay you a visit. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Go to hell," Emma advised flatly.

Hordor only laughed. "Such spirit." His eyes flickered to Rumpelstiltskin, where he still held his chin, "...But all spirit can be broken."

With that, he released him, and returned to his horse. Whistling a shrill call, he turned and spurred his horse towards the reddened sky, and the other men followed.

Rumpelstiltskin collapsed then, caving against her and she wrapped her arms around him. The knot of people began to move, some coming forward to console the poor mother. Sparing a glance at the woman still weeping in the dust, Emma led him back inside.

The room still smelled faintly of sex, much to her dismay, as she helped him back to the bed in the corner. "Who was that man? What's going on?"

He stared at the earthen floor for several minutes, his hair hanging in his face. She thought of the look the commander had given him, the odd catch in his voice and the way he'd touched his hair. The weight of it sat heavy and uneven in her stomach and she sat beside him with a sigh, leaning over so their knees brushed.

"He comes to take the children to the war?" She asked finally. He nodded, still staring, unseeing. Gently, Emma reached out and took his hand in hers. He looked up then, giving a smile that was surely meant to be reassuring. It only looked wan and sad. "...Is he the one who took you?"

He flinched then, jerking his hand out of her grasp and she realized the implication of her words.

"...Rumpelstiltskin..." She said softly, the name less unwieldy on her lips now, but still achingly strange. "Did that man... Did he hurt you?"

"...We served in the same unit as boys..." He whispered, voice hoarse and muted as though coming from a great distance. "...I thought he was my friend, but he... And when they found me... He was the one... They ordered him to hold me down..."

Emma cringed when he curled his hand protectively around his bad leg, drawing it up against his chest. Again, she thought of the curiously invasive way the man had touched him, the veiled threat of his words. She hadn't encountered these kinds of things as the sheriff of Storybrooke, but growing up in the system and working to catch criminals had given her a broad spectrum of the kinds of cruelties human beings would willingly visit on one another.

"So last night..." With a pang, she thought of the previous evening, the way he had trembled and curled his hands to his chest. The way he'd cried out as she grabbed his hips roughly, or when she'd raked her teeth across his collarbone. Her face flushed with shame and she wrapped her arms around herself.

His eyes lifted then, watching her. She could see the exact moment he drew precisely the wrong conclusion and crumpled in on himself.

"Hey! Hey, no..." Unfolding herself, she took both his hands in hers, leaning her forehead against his. Peering into his wet, brown eyes, she smiled gently. "I don't regret that we were together. I just... I should have been easier. I shouldn't... I should never have been so rough."

"...It was fine..." He murmured deferentially, his eyes lowering and sliding to the side.

"If you weren't comfortable with something, it wasn't fine." Emma insisted.

"...I don't know how to be comfortable with that ... sort of thing..." He murmured.

"I'm sorry."

He looked up then, eyes betraying his surprise. "No! Please! ...Don't be. I was... I was happy. I liked it. ...I like you."

She recalled his breathy voice, whispering a very different word than 'like' and the colour returned to her cheeks.

"...I like you, too." She said quietly. Shifting suddenly, she rolled onto her back, head in his lap. He rocked back with surprise, but a moment later, his hand tentatively crept up to her curls, petting across them gently. She smiled up at him and he returned the expression, so much warmth in his eyes that it made her chest ache.

Outside, a woman was probably still sobbing. In here, a broken man might well be taking the first steps towards healing. Emma closed her eyes.


	10. 9: Home

_This bit is ridiculously small but I felt like it came out nicely and I didn't want to detract or spoil it by adding more. Thanks to Tangy for giving me the confidence I needed to trust my instinct. Also, please check out Lagger2's Deviant Art for some amazing fanart! I want to gather all the lovely things people have made me into one place so everyone can enjoy them (and I can gush over them every day), so if you've made something, drop me a line and let me know! And since it keeps coming up and surprising people, if you have a Tumblr, I'm thestorieswesay and we should be fronds! _

_This next bit of story is a bit of a jump forward in time, but it was necessary to tell the story I wanted to tell. Sorry for any confusion, and for the delay in updates. Once again, my ridiculously poor health rears its ugly head – bronchitis and then I coughed so hard I sprained my lung (wat), and just haven't been in the right mindset for writing. Thank you for your lovely encouragement and well-wishes! This story is nothing without you lovely readers, and I hope you continue to enjoy it as we move into the final stretch of story. 3_

**IX: Home**

The darkness surrounding her felt cool and endless. She drifted in the limitless space, the only tangible sensation that of her fingers clenching and releasing. Clenching and releasing. She tried to open her eyes, or to close her hand in a fist, but neither instinct produced the proper reaction. Instead, she remained adrift in the quiet nothingness, with only the faint pressure on her fingertips to ground her.

She could hear voices, indistinct, completely neutral, and no amount of straining could make the litany clear. Once, she thought she caught her name, but that was all.

The scent of straw filled her senses and she turned away from the pressure on her hand, finally feeling something solid pressed against her back. There was warmth here, unlike the coolness of the never-ending space, and she clung to that, ignoring the touch on her fingers in exchange for this full-length contact.

"Emma..."

The voice could have been beside her or light years away.

"Emma... please..."

A woman's voice, but echoed by a man's. Soft, plantive. Someone squeezed her fingers but she was still turned into the warmth at her side.

Mary Margaret's voice, she realized with a start.

Opening her eyes, she rolled her shoulder into the body next to her, clutching her stomach at the sudden movement within. Rumpelstiltskin lay beside her, eyes wide and shining with worry, one hand curved around her hip gently.

"I'm okay..." She murmured, pressing her tousled curls to his bare chest. He ducked his head against hers, his chin a comforting pressure on the top of her head. "I'm okay..." She repeated, wrapping both of her arms around the prominent swell of her belly.

"A bad dream?" He said softly, stroking a thin hand across her shoulders, cradling the muscles there as though they were something infinitely precious.

"...I don't know what that was..." She answered, the weight of the lie settling in her like a stone. Mary Margaret's voice. The scent of orange cleaner. A warm light on her face. Now that she was separate from the dark space, she recognized it for what it really was.

Storybrooke.

Her hold on this world was lessening by the day now. Soon, she might slip free entirely. What would happen to her body, to their child, if she opened her eyes in that borderless black? What would happen to this shy, tender man then?

Emma closed her eyes and tried to decide which was home – the far-away town she'd come from or the life she'd found here instead.


	11. 10: Light

This is it, everyone. The last full chapter of Time Around. Thanks to everyone who stuck with me, who sent encouragement and well-wishes.

**X: Light**

**I:**

The villagers kept their back to the eastern horizon. All activities in town seemed to center on the west, where the sky remained blue and pure and endless. No one wanted to acknowledge or dwell on the fires in the east, the never-ending inferno that melted youth and left only broken spirits and damaged flesh.

What kind of life could a child lead in a world like this, she wondered.

She thought of Henry, ten years old, with his hesitant smile and his gentle spirit. What would a place like this do to a boy that gentle? As she looked across the yard, she realized she already knew.

Rumpelstiltskin stood carefully, his staff resting against his right shoulder, using both arms to unfurl the wet washing in order to clip it to the clothesline. She had watched him do this countless times, usually helping, but it never failed to make her smile. The pleasure he took in his work was obvious. He enjoyed rhythmic, repetitive tasks, from the wheel to almost any other kind of chore. He wore only his linen undershirt and breeches, in concession to the blistering heat; she would be lying to say she did not enjoy the view.

She leaned back against wall of the house, sitting on the long wooden bench he had finished constructing the week before. The table was proving more difficult in this sweltering weather, but she was certain he would get it finished 'in time.'

'In time.' They used this phrase quite a bit these days, but her heart twisted when she heard it. He did not know she dreamt of Storybrooke, nearly every night now.

She heard Mary Margaret's voice, Henry's, and some she did not know well. Never his voice, until he broke the spell, calling her back out of her endless floating and into his arms.

Emma watched Rumpelstiltskin finish the last of the laundry. When he turned to look at her, catching his staff and shifting his weight against it, he smiled. She could not keep the answering smile off her face. He looked so young, so happy, so... tender. She had never seen a warmer pair of eyes than this man's as he looked at her.

He paused beside her, still leaning on his staff as he curved himself towards her, as though asking permission to sit by her side. She shook her head, laughing, and grabbed his wrist to pull him down. He smiled at that, dipping his head, hair slipping past his shoulders to fall over his face.

Immediately, Emma reached up to gently tuck his hair behind his ear. She did not want to miss one moment of this, did not want to miss one expression on that face. She thought of Gold suddenly – older, bitter, and convinced he was unable to be loved. Her smile took on a twinge of sadness and he reached for her hand, eyes darkening with concern.

"It's nothing," She said, shaking her head to reassure him. Her free hand stole down to the swell of her stomach. He had helped make a long loose shift for her, wider around the middle than the one she'd first worn here, to accommodate her pregnancy.

It had been completely unexpected. One day she had suddenly realized it had been too long since she'd had her cycle. Coupled with their development into lovemaking, she realized too late that she hadn't even considered any kind of protection. Normally, she would have been enraged at herself, berating herself for her stupidity. That's what she had done before, after all.

But this man was not Henry's father. This man was a good, kind man.

This man loved her.

And she loved him.

They sat together now, enjoying the breeze's blessed relief from the weight of the heat. Slowly, Emma leaned to the side until she was curled up on the bench beside him, resting her shoulder against his chest.

"...We're going to have to name this kid," She said suddenly.

He snorted in amusement. "Yes, well, that is generally the way of things."

"Shut up, you know it's something serious we need to discuss. I mean... What even is considered a regular name here?"

When he pursed his lips together in a frowning pout, she elbowed him gently in the ribs. "Oh, hush, your name is fine."

"...It's very long." He offered apologetically. "I was named after my father, Rumpelstilzchen."

At her mildly alarmed expression, he laughed. "Don't worry. I'm not keen to pass certain things along. What are your parents' names? My mother was called Marchen."

"...Uh..." Emma hesitated, feeling a faint flush creep into her features that had nothing to do with the temperature. "...Snow White and ...Charming?"

He raised the tips of his fingers to his lips, attempting unsuccessfully to smother his snicker. She elbowed him again. "Hey, now, Mister Four Syllables, don't laugh!"

He pulled a face then, shrugging his shoulders as he pulled his mouth down at an extreme angle in an exaggerated frown. "...I guess we could always call them Ruemma."

Emma laughed then, shaking her head. "I want to name this baby something special. I... I told you about Henry..."

"Your son who is ... far away." He nodded sadly.

"I didn't get to name him. He was picked up, taken away from me as soon as he was born. The woman who adopted him... she gave him is name. Feels like the one thing I should have given the little guy and I just... didn't."

"I'm sure he likes his name. Henry is... It's not a terrible name."

"When I was pregnant with Henry, I saw everything as an inconvenience, and a nightmare. I didn't want to be there, going through those things. I didn't want to keep my baby. ...But now that I've met him... I wish I'd done things differently. I'm _going_ to do things differently. For Henry and for this baby."

He nodded, staring past her at the laundry dancing in the wind. She could see the moment his thoughts darkened, the moment he glanced to the left and saw the faintest curl of red in the distant sky. Despite the heat, the afternoon suddenly seemed very cold.

"...It's like all the light goes out of the world there," He said softly.

She took his hand firmly in hers, pulling their joined palms and entwined fingers into her lap. "There's always light, Rumpelstiltskin. If I've learned anything, I've learned that."

**II:**

Emma dropped back on the bed with a groan. "For the last time, I am _fine_."

"I know that you're fine _right now_, but if something were to happen..."

She pushed herself up on her elbows and shook her matted curls from her face. "What, like the baby suddenly coming early?"

"You shouldn't..." He curled both hands around his staff in a gesture that somehow managed to combine white-knuckles and hand-wringing. "You shouldn't joke about things like that!"

"Hey, hey, calm down..." She said gently this time, reaching up for him. He came with her when she tugged; sitting beside her on the bed they now shared.

With a long exhalation of breath, he curved over her, pressing his cheek against her stomach, closing his eyes. "...I don't have to go."

"You kinda do," She answered, brushing her fingers through his hair. "You've put it off as long as you could, but you're going to have to go tomorrow."

"Grenelda would be angry..." He murmured, throat tightening at the thought. "...She's probably... already angry."

"Rumpelstiltskin..." Emma whispered, drawing his face up with her fingers gently. "You have to take the yarn and get more wool. We need supplies. It's going to be fine. We're both going to be fine."

He made a helpless sound of distress, curling closer to her on the bed. "It doesn't feel right to leave you..."

"You're not leaving. You're just... going to work."

"On the other side of the wood! That may as well be the Midlands for all it will matter!"

She pet her hand across his back soothingly as his voice rose in volume and pitch. "Hey, hey... Has anyone ever told you you're very high-strung?"

"...I don't know what that means."

"It means you worry too much."

"I sometimes wonder if you don't worry enough," He replied.

"It's going to be _fine_."

**III:**

Emma screamed, throwing her head back, feeling the sweat slide down her neck to pool in her gown around her back. Between her legs, Veronica leaned in closer, nodding almost frantically. "Yes, I can see the baby now... Just a bit more... Another little push..."

"A little push?" Emma snarled, clutching at the blanket hard enough to fray the weave with her fingernails.

"Just the one..." She replied, dipping her hands in the bucket of water beside her.

"I am pushing!" She snapped. Another contraction forced her flat on her back and she screamed again, trying to focus on the beauty of this situation, rather than the pain. It was hard to find much beauty when it felt like she'd somehow swallowed her Volkswagen. Never before had she realized how grateful she should have been for the epidural and painkillers during Henry's birth.

Finally, Emma pushed herself up on her elbows and ground down with her hips. The sharp cry startled her into falling back down, just as Veronica closed her hands around the messy, weeping bundle.

"...It's a little boy..." She whispered, awe written across her face. "You have a son, Emma..."

Slowly, Emma reached out for the baby, taking him into her arms. He was perfect - ten fingers, ten toes, and a thick mat of twisted dark hair. She wondered what colour his eyes would be, but they were too screwed shut to tell.

"He's so light..." She whispered, smoothing her hand gently across his face as he continued to cry. "...Hey, kiddo. Your daddy's not home yet, but... boy is he going to be surprised to see you."

She looked across the bed to her companion, smiling gratefully at the other woman. They had come a long way from their awkward conversations at the side of the well. "He's beautiful," Veronica said softly. "...Let me take him and bathe him, while you rest."

Emma nodded in agreement, but she found herself gripping tightly to the baby, giving him a hug as firm as she dared. "...That's probably a good idea..." She acquiesced, flopping bonelessly on the bed again. She felt filthy and drained and utterly happy.

Emma closed her eyes.

**IV:**

"...Emma."

She groaned and tried to turn on her side, only to find her body resisted the movement entirely.

"Oh, God, Emma, please...!"

Lifting one hand to her face, she rubbed her palms across her eyes and nose. Her mouth felt bone dry and she was hungry. She became aware of a slight ringing in her ears and she shook her head to clear it.

"You're awake! I can't believe it... I was so worried, I..."

Slowly, painfully slowly, Emma lowered her hands from her face.

"...No..."

"Emma, what's wrong?"

"No, no, no... This isn't... This can't be..."

"Emma, honey, what's wrong?"

She curled into Mary Margaret's sudden, enveloping hug, feeling deep, shattering sobs rising up in her chest. The other woman held her tightly as she cried, whispering softly, "Its okay, Emma... You're safe now. You're home and you're safe."

She didn't understand why this only made the other woman sob harder.


	12. 11: Out of the Forest

_This story is and has always been for Goldfish. Thank you for this lovely, lovely prompt and for being so good to me every step of the way._

**XI: Out of the Forest…**

**I:**

She sat staring out the window, watching the rain come down in torrents across the foggy pane. When she heard her name repeated softly, she finally turned back to the too-white, too-sterile room and the vibrant, rosy-cheeked boy curled up in the chair beside her.

"Sorry, kiddo," She said, trying for a weak smile.

"I was saying that even though for _you,_ you were gone for like almost a year, but _here_ it was only like two weeks. I think it's because you were kind of here, keeping the Curse from coming back entirely, but you were so far away that you couldn't stop it from at least slowing things down."

"...It's as good a theory as any," She said finally, but there was no heart in her voice.

Henry bit his lip, expression suddenly saddening. "...Are you okay?"

"I was gone a long time. I... lived a life, there, Henry. There were people... There was someone..."

"Someone you want to go back to," He finished. She could hear her own hollow tone in his words.

"It's hard to explain."

"I'm sorry," He said softly. "None of this is ever fair, especially not to you."

"Henry..." She reached for his hand then, closing it around his, lacing their fingers together. The memory of the last time she had held someone's hand like this hit her like a brick and she curled her arms around herself, pulling away from him.

"Emma?" He asked, sitting up straight in the chair.

"I never even got to say goodbye..." She whispered.

They both sat helplessly in the hospital room; the only sound that of the rain beating on the window, one with a broken heart and the other without much hope.

**II:**

In the weeks that passed, Emma's body improved, but her mind remained mired in a sorrow she couldn't even begin to articulate. Only Henry knew where she had really been during those weeks her body had been lying here in a coma, and she could not even begin to explain to a ten year old child that she had somehow gained and lost him a brother, leaving behind the only man she had ever been sure she truly loved.

As she remained here, solid and conscious and real, in Storybrooke, she began to realize her memories were already spotting and fraying around the edges. Henry suspected it was because of the Curse, of course - its design stripped the Fairy Tale Land's citizenry of their proper memories, memories of those woods and those places and those lives. She wondered if, in time, she would come to remember nothing of that place, instead believing the lie that she had been unresponsive and silent here in this hospital. It might have made things easier, but she fought it every step of the way.

Each day became an endless litany of the life she had left behind - a cataloging of her actions, her thoughts, her senses. His warm, hesitant smile as he reached for her. The brush of his hand across her back, the sharp pain in her stomach from the baby's strong kicks... The feather-soft kiss to her brow each morning when he woke to find her still beside him. She felt tears prickling at her eyes when she thought of how he must wake now, alone again in a cold bed, left only with his pain and loneliness to hold him.

She heard it then, a sound she would know anywhere, one she knew as well as her own heartbeat – the gentle tapping of wood against the floor, a gait that was unique to one person and one person alone.

Emma turned away from her window when he entered the room.

He wore a black suit, as always, and the purple shirt she had come to associate with his more introspective and mercurial moods. He leaned on his cane with one hand, and in his other, he held a bouquet of flowers, pink carnations, bright against his dark clothing.

"...How are you feeling?" He asked softly. His accent seemed subdued, more sibilant. The uncertainty in his voice, so alien in this man, made her heart twist.

"I've been better," she murmured.

"I suspect that's true." He placed the flowers on her bedside table, ignoring the low table at the foot of the bed containing her other gifts. "May I?" He asked, indicating Henry's chair with the flick of one wrist.

She nodded, unable to speak over the tightness in her chest.

He sat beside her, cradling his cane between both hands, simultaneously gripping the wood and wringing his hands against it. After an indeterminable silence, she looked up at him, realizing his eyes were as wet and shining as her own.

His hair was straighter, his face more lined. His hands were the same, blunt cut nails, calloused knuckles, still delicate despite their size. She swallowed the lump in her throat as the moisture in her eyes stung harder than ever.

"When we first met... You told me Emma was a lovely name," She said softly.

He pulled his left hand away from his cane, reaching up to rub his own shoulder briefly. Finally, he nodded, smiling hesitantly. "...And so it is."

"_you and I…_

_side by side…_

_we are the next time around."_

_-Vienna Teng, In Another Life_

_Thank you for reading Time Around. There will be a sequel._


End file.
